


An Ocean Between

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexuality, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kid Fic, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes nearly three years for life to return to something that resembles normal for Sherlock after his return. Now, John and Mary’s baby is growing before his eyes, he’s getting steady cases from the Yard, and the solitude in 221B finally feels comfortable. </p><p>And then, in the midst of a quiet summer, Sherlock’s teenage son gets in contact with him again. This brings to the forefront a host of painful memories for Sherlock, and regrets over a friendship he believes ruined beyond repair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All my thanks to [kenopsia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/indie) for the cheerleading, the hand-holding, and the beta. This wouldn't have been possible without her!
> 
> [Nero Wolfe](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nero_Wolfe) is a character created by Rex Stout who was theorized to be the son of Sherlock Holmes in several pastiches. I’m stealing the name and the invented tie to Holmes for this fic. This time around, I’m abandoning my usual headcanon of Karl Urban as Victor Trevor in favor of [Hrithik Roshan](http://media1.santabanta.com/full1/Indian%20%20Celebrities%28M%29/Hrithik%20Roshan/hrithik-roshan-70a.jpg). 
> 
> Medical and police procedural inaccuracies abound, I'm sure, so either ignore them or skip reading this if that's going to be bothersome.
> 
> And finally, this story isn’t exactly Sherlock/Victor, but it’s also not exactly _not_ Sherlock/Victor.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> * * *

The body laid out on the slab was little different from most of the others that passed through Molly Hooper’s morgue. She was female, dead, and wholly unremarkable. She likely wouldn’t have caught Sherlock’s attention while alive, and the only reason he was remotely interested in her now was because of how she died.

 

“Greg tells me you’ve got something interesting,” John said as he pushed open the doors and entered the morgue. Sherlock looked up from his examination of the body.

 

“You’re late,” he said. John rolled his eyes.

 

“It’s not my job to chase after you. I don’t come whenever you call.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, you do.”

 

John chose not to respond to that. He pulled a sack out of his coat pocket and held it out. “Here, this is for you.”

 

“Ah, hail Mary, full of grace,” Sherlock said happily, plucking the bag from John’s outstretched hand. He opened it and looked inside. The bag was full of biscuits which had come from Mary’s kitchen. “Excellent. Your wife has turned out to be quite useful.”

 

John snorted. “If only I’d figured out sooner that the only way to get you to eat on a case was to give you baked goods.”

 

Sherlock waved a hand and then pulled a biscuit out of the bag. “It wouldn’t have done you any good. You’re incompetent in the kitchen.”

 

He bit into the biscuit, hummed in satisfaction, and then set the bag aside to take home with him.

 

“So what’ve we got?” John asked. “It must be interesting, for you to be in such a good mood.”

 

“It is that,” Sherlock said. He finished off the biscuit and then beckoned John closer. “Take a look at this.”

 

He pulled down the sheet to the victim’s thighs, so that John could see her hands.

 

“Well, now, that _is_ interesting,” John said, leaning in to examine the mark that had been carved into the back of the victim’s hand. It was a crudely-drawn number 3. John looked up. “It’s related to that body that was found a few weeks ago, then?”

 

“I believe so,” Sherlock said. Two weeks ago, a man had been found dead of mysterious circumstances, and the number 2 had been carved into the back of his hand. It hadn’t been determined whether he died of natural causes or foul play, and it was still up for debate. Lestrade’s team had landed the case, and now they had been given this one as well. “Which begs the question -”

 

“Where’s the first body?” John finished for him.

 

“Precisely.”

 

Unfortunately, Sherlock’s enthusiasm for this new puzzle ran thin as the afternoon wore on, because at each turn they were stymied.

 

“How do you know that the first victim was female and killed three weeks ago?” John finally demanded after an hour of combing through crime scene photographs, looking at hands of victims in case someone had photographed something unusual but failed to put it in their notes.

 

“Because it’s a pattern, John,” Sherlock said irritably. “The third victim was killed two weeks after the second. She was female, and the second victim was male. Working backwards, one can only deduce that the first victim was killed one week before the second, and that that victim was female. The killer is alternating between killing men and women, and he adds a week between killings each time. He lets us know which victim he’s on by carving a number into their hands, and that’s how long we need to wait before the next killing.”

 

He nodded to a case file on the table between them. “Besides, the victims all die at almost exactly the same time. Ten in the morning on a Tuesday.”

 

“This is absurd. You can’t possibly know all of that!” John protested.

 

“It makes sense, John,” Sherlock said in exasperation.

 

“Right, so _if_ you’re correct,” John said, clearly humouring him, “then three weeks from now, at ten in the morning on a Tuesday, a man is going to be found dead with the number four carved into the back of his hand.”

 

“ _If_ I’m correct,” Sherlock scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. When would John learn?

 

The rest of the day produced nothing of worth, and Sherlock and John parted ways shortly before sundown. John went home to dinner with Mary and Madeleine, and Sherlock retreated to Baker Street in frustration.

 

He calmed his mind somewhat by starting to add items to his evidence wall. The case of the man with the number two carved into his hand up until now had been a strange anomaly but nothing particularly interesting. With the addition of the woman with the three on the back of her own hand, though, it had become something more. An intriguing puzzle that would keep him occupied for a while, and give his brain something to mull over. It was a distraction, at least, and Sherlock welcomed it. He always welcomed the distractions that cases brought, and Lestrade’s team had been providing him with ample work lately.

 

Eventually, his stomach reminded him rather insistently that he had not yet eaten dinner - in fact, apart from the biscuit, he hadn’t had anything since that morning - and Sherlock fixed himself something to eat. It was nothing compared to Mary’s cooking, but it would do.

 

After that, Sherlock settled in to check his website. The email address that was linked to his Internet persona had dozens of unread messages in its inbox, and they had accumulated only over the course of one day. Most of them were cases that held no interest to him, and he stated as much in his reply to them. A couple of them were promising, but they weren’t more interesting than a potential serial killer, so Sherlock flagged them for later consideration. One email was from Lestrade, and it was an amusing - not that Sherlock would ever admit that out loud - video of a puppy playing with a baby.

 

The final email in his inbox was from an address Sherlock didn’t recognise, and he almost deleted it until he caught sight of the first few words of the body of the message. He opened it and read the email in full. It was a short note; efficient and to-the-point. The sender wasn’t one to waste words.

 

_Sherlock -_

 

_Nero has something he wants to ask you. Email him when you have a moment. Use this one; it’s our new address._

 

_-Victor_

 

Sherlock was so taken aback by the abrupt message - after nearly three years of silence, no less - that it took him almost an hour to formulate a reply, which was equally concise.

 

_Clearly this is not a conversation he wants you to know about, or he would have contacted me already about it through this address. Is it your custom to monitor the emails of a seventeen-year-old, by the way? The word ‘overbearing’ comes to mind._

 

_When did he start going by Nero?_

 

_-SH_

 

Victor’s reply was swift, which surprised Sherlock, given the time difference. He must have a break between classes right now. Sherlock could almost picture his clenched jaw and the furrow between his brows as he furiously typed the message.

 

_It’s my custom to monitor the conversation between my child and a former drug addict, yes. Or perhaps current addict - one can never tell with you. It changes with the wind, it seems. If you’re not going to call him, at least tell me so I can let him know. He’s used to disappointments from you, so it wouldn’t be a surprise. One of these days, maybe he’ll even finally realize that hoping you’ll reach out to him is useless._

 

_He’s gone by Nero since he was fourteen._

 

Which you would know if you had made an effort to speak to him, Sherlock mentally finished for Victor. He closed his laptop with an irritated snap and got up from the desk. The first conversation they had had in almost three years, and they were already fighting again.

 

Much as Sherlock tried not to think about it after that, in truth, the email had thrown him and kept him sufficiently distracted for the rest of the evening. Though he preferred to text and email rather than speak on the phone, the one drawback of this was that there was very little he could deduce from a typed message. The words were stark and detached, without a telling inflection or a facial expression to go along with them. The only thing he could deduce from the message was that Victor had started slipping American spellings into his writing and either wasn’t catching them or didn’t bother to correct them any longer. In any case, it was likely that he and James - _Nero_ , he corrected mentally - were still living in America, if those spellings had become second-nature. Perhaps they were still in New York City, where Victor had moved them when Nero was eight.

 

When Sherlock was feeling particularly generous, he’d say that Victor moved to escape. When he wasn’t, then Victor had run away. Fled, really, and without any warning.

 

Well, no. There had been warnings. A constant barrage of them, almost every time Sherlock went to visit Nero when he was a child.  Victor had always told him that if he slipped up again, if he relapsed, then he was cutting off all contact with Sherlock. He wasn’t going to speak to him any longer, and he certainly wasn’t going to let him see Nero. Sherlock had known that Victor wasn’t bluffing, but even that wasn’t enough at the time. And by the time he’d finished his second stint in rehab, the tiny flat where Victor had been raising Nero was empty. There wasn’t even a note. There didn’t need to be.

 

Sherlock was still thinking about the email conversation when he went to bed later that night, and his restless sleep was filled with images of a little boy who’d had the misfortune to inherit his unruly dark curls and prominent nose. He woke in irritation at two in the morning, unable to get back to sleep again.

 

Though he hadn’t seen Nero since he was eight, they had been in contact briefly around the time of Sherlock’s fall. Nero had been twelve then, and Sherlock had known what was in store for him in the coming months. Moriarty had set into motion a series of events that even Sherlock couldn’t work his way out of, and it had been hard enough to allow his friends close to home to think him dead. He couldn’t do that to Nero, or to Victor. He’d managed to get a discreet message to them, to tell them not to worry when the news broke about his suicide. And he’d spoken briefly to Nero, whose voice had been thick with the effort it was taking him not to cry. That had baffled Sherlock. Why would Nero be upset over someone he barely knew?

 

Two years later, upon his return, Victor had been the one to reach out. He’d sent Sherlock Nero’s mobile number and told him to call. Sherlock never had. But it was entirely possible that the number was still valid.

 

It was only nine o’clock in New York, and so Sherlock picked up his mobile off the bedside table and pulled up Nero’s number. He stared at the screen, at the name – just James, not even a last name – and his thumb hovered over the call button.

 

In the end, he couldn’t do it. Sherlock gave a huff of frustration and tossed the mobile aside. It landed on the pillow next to his own, in the bed that was made for two people and only ever slept one.

 

He was barely asleep again when his mobile started to shrill, startling him. He had reached for it and answered it without fully realising what he was doing.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

His eyes snapped open, and he was instantly awake.

 

“James?” he asked in some surprise. Then he remembered. “I mean - Nero. Sorry.”

 

“No, it’s fine,” Nero said quickly. “Did I wake you?”

 

“No,” Sherlock lied, though he didn’t know why. He cleared his throat. “I wondered when I’d be hearing from you. Your father said you had something you wanted to ask me.”

 

“Oh.” Nero sounded vaguely disappointed. He must have thought that Sherlock would want to make small talk. “Right. I suppose I did mention it to him. Didn’t think he’d tell you, though.”

 

“He wouldn’t have unless he was concerned,” Sherlock said. “Are you alright?”

 

“What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Dad just worries.”

 

Well, some things never change, it seemed.

 

“See, the thing is,” Nero went on, “I was thinking - I’m going off to university next year. So this summer I thought I’d start looking at different ones before I apply in the fall. Dad and I are going to hit up a couple this month, but then he’s got a conference that he’s going to for a week and I was thinking… well, I want to see Cambridge. And I know you’ve got that extra room since Dr Watson moved out, and you and Dad both went to Cambridge, so I thought…”

 

Nero trailed off uncertainly.

 

“You’d like to come here and stay with me and have me show you around our old university,” Sherlock finished for him. “I assume Victor has no idea you’d even been thinking about this.”

 

“Well… no. I guess I just thought, if you agreed to it, he’d let me go. If I want to and you want to, he can’t very well say no, can he? And I’m seventeen now, so I should be able to decide these things for myself.”

 

Seventeen already. Sherlock had known that, of course, but the last time they had spoken Nero had only been a child - a child who went by James and whose voice hadn’t yet started to change. He barely knew the young man on the other end of the line.

 

And, if nothing else, it would annoy Victor.

 

“Of course you should,” he said. “When’s Victor away?”

 

“Three weeks from now,” Nero said, a note of hope in his voice. “He’s going to be in Germany.”

 

Sherlock checked his calendar - barring any developments in his case, he was completely free.

 

“Alright,” he said. “Yes, you can come stay. And if Victor gives you any trouble about it, tell him to call me.”

 

Victor did precisely that not an hour later.

 

“What the hell, Sherlock?” he demanded when Sherlock answered his mobile. Sherlock had given up on sleep entirely and was stretched out on the sofa, reading a book.

 

“Hello to you, too,” Sherlock said. He couldn’t help the smug note in his voice. “You haven’t spoken to me in three years. Surely you can come up with a better greeting than that.”

 

Victor ignored him. “Nero tells me he’s going to be staying with you in a few weeks?”

 

“Yes. Problem?” Sherlock bookmarked his page and dropped the book to the floor.

 

“Would you like the list of everything I find problematic about this situation chronologically or alphabetically?”

 

“He’s seventeen years old, Victor. He can make these decisions for himself.”

 

“Do you actually want to see him, or are you just using this as a way to get back at me?” Victor snapped. “Because he honestly wants to see you, to spend time with you, and I won’t have him used as a pawn in whatever twisted mind game you’re trying to play!”

 

Sherlock sobered instantly. “He’s not a pawn.”

 

Silence for a beat. “Then what the hell are you thinking? You haven’t spoken to him in years. Surely you didn’t suddenly have a change of heart and decide after seventeen years that you’re ready to try to be a father to him.”

 

“No,” Sherlock said. “But I admit that I am curious.”

 

“Curious,” Victor repeated flatly. “Well, I’m sorry, but he doesn’t exist to satisfy your curiosity.”

 

“Regardless,” Sherlock said. “He wants to come, and he is _going_ to come whether you approve or not.”

 

“What makes you so sure?”

 

“Because he’s your son,” Sherlock said. “And if he’s anything like you, once he’s got his mind set to do something, he’s going to do it.”

 

There was another beat of silence. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he’d managed to render Victor speechless.

 

“Fine,” Victor said shortly. “I don’t like this, but I’m not going to stop him. I’d tell you not to hurt him, but I know better than to ask the impossible of you. Just keep him fed and keep him safe, and I’ll pick him up on my way home from the conference.”

 

He rang off without saying goodbye.

 

\----

 

Sherlock tried to have dinner with John and Mary at least once a week. When he got wrapped up in a case it sometimes fell to as little as once a month, so he wanted to make sure he got in some adequate time with them before this latest case took over. He had a feeling it would be sooner rather than later.

 

Madeleine greeted him when he opened the door that night, running over to him on her tiny legs and thrusting her arms out.

 

“Unca Will!” she exclaimed as he lifted her into the air. She laughed as he swung her above his head before settling her on his hip.

 

“How is my little detective?” he asked, tapping her on the nose. She had been playing crime scene on the floor, he could see, and had all of her dolls laid out like bodies. She had used some of her mother’s yellow ribbon to rope off the crime scene, anchoring it to the sofa and table. And she still carried her magnifying glass in her fist, a present from Sherlock last Christmas.

 

Madeleine wrinkled her nose. “Not good.”

 

“No?”

 

“Case is hard.” She gestured to her crime scene and then frowned, a spitting image of Mary. “Can you help me?”

 

“How about after dinner?” Sherlock said, and she nodded solemnly.

 

He went into the kitchen with her still perched on his hip. Mary looked up from her cooking.

 

“I didn’t even hear you come in, Sherlock,” she said, smiling at him. “But I see someone at least was there to greet you. Sweetie, why don’t you go get Daddy and tell him it’s time for dinner?”

 

Sherlock set Madeleine on the floor, and she scurried off. Mary came over and kissed his cheek.

 

“Greg’s been telling us some more about the case. It sounds interesting.”

 

A normal person would have said that it sounded awful, Sherlock reflected. It was one of the many reasons why he appreciated Mary.

 

“It does seem to be complex,” Sherlock said. “Just what I need. When did you speak to Lestrade?”

 

“Oh - he’s here for dinner tonight. Sorry, I thought we told you. They’re having a drink in the study. Did you want one?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. He helped her finish off cooking the meal instead, and then transferred the food to serving bowls and dishes before setting them all out on the table. John and Lestrade came into the kitchen then. Madeleine was sitting on Lestrade’s shoulders. She protested when he put her down onto her chair.

 

“Sorry, little miss. I can’t eat with you sitting up there,” he said.

 

“Want Unca Will to sit by me!” Madeleine announced. She had struggled with Sherlock’s name when she first started speaking, and he had discovered that William was easier for her to grasp. She was the only person who could get away calling him that.

 

Except that wasn’t entirely true. Victor had only known him as William throughout their years together at university. Sherlock hadn’t changed his name until later on, and he demanded that everyone else in his life call him by his middle name. And even though Victor obliged, whenever he slipped up, Sherlock hadn’t bothered to correct him. It sounded almost like an endearment, coming from Victor. He rather missed it.

 

They all took their seats and started to eat. Mary asked Lestrade about his girls, and John chatted with Madeleine while he cut up her meat for her. Sherlock let the conversation wash over him as he poked at his food.

 

“Sherlock?” Mary asked suddenly.

 

He blinked and looked up at her. “Hm?”

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Fine.”

 

Mary gave him a look. “You’re glaring at your salad.”

 

“You’re sure everything’s alright, mate?” John asked.

 

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock rubbed his forehead. He could feel the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes. He turned back to his food and shoveled some of the beef on his plate into his mouth.

 

John went back to eating his meal, but both Lestrade and Mary had paused and were looking at him curiously. Sherlock sighed.

 

“I heard from James yesterday,” he said to Lestrade, who lifted an eyebrow.

 

“No kidding. He called you?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “He wants to come visit.”

 

“You’re joking. Was that your idea?”

 

“No. It was his.”

 

Lestrade shook his head and said dryly, “I’ll bet Victor’s thrilled.”

 

“Not especially.”

 

“Yeah, that was sarcasm. Still, s’pose it must be a good sign that he’s reaching out to you, yeah?” Lestrade pointed out. “How he’d sound?”

 

“Well, I suppose.” Sherlock poked his vegetables. “He’s seventeen now. And he goes by his middle name. Nero.”

 

Lestrade snorted. “God, that sounds familiar. I bet he’s a spitting image of you now, too.”

 

“I sincerely hope not.”

 

“Okay, I’m lost,” John announced. “Who are you talking about?”

 

Lestrade shook his head and looked in Sherlock’s direction, silently indicating that it wasn’t his story to tell. Sherlock set his cutlery aside and leaned back in his chair. He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.

 

“When I was twenty, I got a friend of the family pregnant,” he said finally. “Nero is the child that resulted from that.”

 

John and Mary stared at him blankly. The silence in the room was absolute.

 

“What?” John managed finally. “Are you telling me that you have a kid?”

 

“Biologically, yes, I have a child,” Sherlock said. “But he’s being raised by… a friend of mine.”

 

“Start at the beginning, Sherlock,” Mary said, pointing her fork at him.

 

Sherlock heaved a sigh. “I was home during a term holiday one year. My parents threw a lavish party for Christmas - really, it was ridiculous - and one of the families who attended happened to have a daughter who was around my age. Amanda. She was the only one worth talking to at the whole event, really. Anyway, we were bored, dreadfully so, and sneaked off for a while. Found our own method of entertainment.”

 

John coughed. Mary patted him on the back and said, “No offense, Sherlock, but you were aware that birth control methods existed, right?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I didn’t claim that what we did was particularly wise. We were in a hurry, slightly intoxicated, and it served to ease the tedium for a bit. And it was an experiment.”

 

“An experiment?” John asked. Sherlock shrugged.

 

“It proved once and for all that I really wasn’t all that interested in women. Or sex, for that matter.”

 

John’s and Mary’s eyes widened simultaneously. Sherlock had never admitted as much out loud - because really, what business was it of anyone’s? - but he assumed that John and Mary had reached that conclusion long ago. Lestrade obviously had, for he continued eating as though nothing particularly earth-shattering was being discussed.

 

“So you knocked up this woman,” John said disbelievingly, “and she - what? - gave the kid to someone else?”

 

Sherlock grimaced, and Lestrade shot him a sympathetic look. “No. She intended to raise the child alone - I wanted no part of it - but she died shortly after he was born. Eclampsia.”

 

John winced. “Sorry, mate.”

 

“You wanted no part of it?” Mary actually sounded slightly horrified.

 

“The only thing I cared about at twenty was when I was getting my next fix,” Sherlock said. “No, I didn’t care about the child at the time. And I certainly wasn’t in a position to co-parent.”

 

“And now?” Mary asked.

 

“It’s complicated.” Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. Madeleine held out her arms to him, and he picked her up and put her on his lap. “I relinquished my parental rights to the sole friend I had at university. Victor Trevor.”

 

“You’ve never mentioned him before,” John said. He leaned his forearms on the table and watched Sherlock carefully.

 

Sherlock wound one of Madeleine’s blonde corkscrew curls around his finger and released it, watching it bounce back into place. She smiled up at him.

 

“I know,” Sherlock said at last. “Nero’s birth was the beginning of the end of our friendship. Victor couldn’t understand how I’d fallen so far, and he didn’t have much respect for a man who would abandon his child. He took the baby in, and Mycroft packed me off to rehab. I stayed sober for about eight years after that. We started to mend things, though our friendship was never the same, and I saw Nero occasionally. Then I relapsed, and Victor took Nero and ran. He didn’t stop running until he’d put an ocean between us. They live in New York now, and he cut off almost all contact.”

 

“Were they at the funeral?” John asked, frowning. Sherlock shook his head slowly.

 

“I had Mycroft get a message to Victor, to let him know what was going on.”

 

“Well, that was kind of you,” John said bitterly. Sherlock shot him a glare.

 

“Fuck off,” he said, because he was tired of apologising. It was over - what did all that matter anymore?

 

“Language,” Mary scolded halfheartedly. She got up from her seat to pour more wine into her glass. “So, this Victor - was he your boyfriend?”

 

“No. He was just - Victor. My friend.” His only friend and the most important person in his life, but they didn’t need to know that. What did it matter, when he’d lost Victor in the end anyway?

 

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him - Nero?” Mary asked.

 

“I haven’t seen him since he was eight. We last spoke when he was twelve,” Sherlock said. “Aside from yesterday.”

 

“It must be difficult, having him live so far away,” Mary said.

 

“It took some getting used to,” Sherlock admitted.

 

“So your son is coming for a visit,” Mary mused, more to herself than anyone else. John still was shaking his head at the news, and Lestrade was busy making faces at Madeleine, who giggled at him. “What are you two going to do?”

 

“He wants to see Cambridge,” Sherlock said. “He’s a year out from university, and he needs to decide where he wants to apply.”

 

“That’s where you went, isn’t it?” Mary asked. Sherlock nodded. “Do you think he really wants to see the university? Or is he just looking for an excuse to see you?”

 

Sherlock frowned. “Why would he want to just see me?”

 

John and Lestrade both exchanged a look.

 

“You’re his dad, idiot,” John said finally.

 

“I’m not. Victor is.”

 

“Some things aren’t as cut-and-dried for the rest of us as they are for you,” Mary said gently. “You’re his parent, and that means something to him even though he wasn’t raised by you. In most cases, the biological parent is also the caretaker and the nurturer. You aren’t, in his case, and that probably feels strange to him. He’s probably trying to come to terms with it, now that he’s almost an adult. And come to terms with you as well. What does he know about your history, and your falling out with Victor?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. “I’ve never mentioned anything to him, at least. I don’t know if Victor has, either.”

 

“Well,” Mary said, suddenly cheerful, “then this will be the perfect opportunity for you two to learn a little about each other. Make sure you bring him by for dinner some night while he’s here. We’d love to meet him.”

 

\----

 

Victor broke his silence a week before Nero’s scheduled visit. He sent Sherlock an email with all of the relevant details pertaining to Nero’s trip. It was a curt note, without much feeling.

 

_I’ve got Nero booked on an overnight flight, Sunday to Monday. Departs LGA at four in the afternoon our time and lands at LHR just before six in the morning GMT. His travel itinerary is attached. I’m flying to Germany the next day and will return the following Tuesday. I’ve got a several-hour layover at Heathrow, so I’ll come out to your flat and pick him up. We’ll be flying back together._

 

_One thing you should be aware of: he has asthma. I’m sending him with his inhaler, of course, and also with a nebulizer. He hasn’t needed to use that since he was ten, but if for some reason he has a severe attack, it’s the best way to get a large amount of medication into him. Do me a favor and read up a bit on it. I don’t need you panicking if he has an attack, because then he’ll do the same and it’ll just make things worse for him._

 

_If you have questions, etc., just text me. It’s faster._

 

Nero must have been diagnosed with asthma sometime after Victor cut all ties with him, then. Sherlock filed this new bit of knowledge away for future reference. There were so many things he didn’t know about this person who was made of his own flesh and blood. It seemed absurd that his own child was such a mystery.

 

But then, that was his fault, wasn’t it?

 

Sherlock honestly didn’t know if he ever would have got in contact with Nero on his own, without prompting. He had thought about it, sure, from time to time, but it was little more than a fleeting notion before he dismissed it. Mycroft was right, after all. They weren’t like other people. There were some things they never would understand, and emotional connections they would never be able to form.

 

_Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?_

 

Sherlock shook his own words from his head, closed out of Victor's email, and pulled up a search engine. He hadn’t performed this particular search in years, because obsessing over the small details of Victor’s and Nero’s lives hadn’t done him much good. It certainly wasn’t enough to bring them back, or to persuade himself to reach out to them. But regardless of all that, Sherlock plugged in the name of the school where Victor had been teaching when they were last in touch, and a few moments later he was staring at the face of his former best friend for the first time in years.

 

The first thing Sherlock noticed were the glasses, sleek and wire-rimmed and something Victor hadn’t needed when Sherlock had last seen him nine years ago. Then the deep brown pools of Victor’s eyes; his bronzed skin; his ink-coloured hair, and the start of silver at his temples. His twice-broken nose and strong, stubbled jaw gave him a rakish look, and his smile was a little awkward, as it often was in photographs. He didn’t like posing; had always said that it never felt right to him.

 

It was too much to look at him. Sherlock felt as though the air had been sucked from his chest, so he hastily clicked away. He searched Nero’s name next, because he was now of the age where he would be attending the same school where Victor taught. Unlike the faculty, there weren’t any photographs of the students on the website, unless they were sweeping shots of the student body during various events. Nero was listed under his given name, James Wolfe, and his name cropped up a couple of times - once under the debate team, and again under the music program. A broader search of the Internet didn’t bring up anything else. Victor had got what he wanted, then - a quiet, sheltered life for Nero, where he could be the son of the Great Detective and not have to deal with the consequences or unwanted attention that stemmed from that.

 

Sherlock’s mobile rang just as he closed his laptop, and he answered it with a sigh.

 

“ _What_ , Mycroft?”

 

“You know very well what,” Mycroft said sharply. “When were you planning on telling me about James’ visit?”

 

“Let me check,” Sherlock said. “Oh, right - _never_.”

 

“Very funny.”

 

“It wasn’t meant to be. I’m surprised it took you this long to figure out that he was coming. You must be slipping in your old age.”

 

“Hardly. I just have more important things to deal with. Have you told Mother?”

 

Now Sherlock felt a slight stab of guilt in his chest. “No.”

 

“Will you?”

 

“No, and neither will you,” he said, more firmly this time. “They already get to see him twice a year as it is.”

 

He knew that it sounded childish, but this was _his_ chance with Nero. He didn’t want to have to share that with his parents, who already got to see him on an annual basis.

 

“Yes, and you haven’t seen him since he was eight,” Mycroft said. “Remind me again whose fault that was.”

 

Sherlock abruptly hung up on him and shoved his phone back in his pocket in frustration. Amanda’s parents had died when Nero was a child, and so Sherlock’s parents - and Mycroft, sadly - were Nero’s only extended family. They flew to America twice a year to visit him, once in the winter and once around Nero’s birthday.

 

Victor had never begrudged Sherlock’s parents the relationship they had with their grandson; if anything, he encouraged it. But then, he had always loved Sherlock’s parents, and they him. His own parents were gone by the time Victor entered university, killed in a car wreck when he was twelve, and he’d been raised by his grandfather, whom he’d adored. If Victor had any other living family, he was unaware of them. His grandparents had moved from Mumbai to London before his father’s birth, and his grandfather had only ever spoken of a brother, now also deceased. And the beloved grandfather had passed, too, just three months shy of Nero’s birth.

 

It was the one gap he and Victor had never been able to breach. Sherlock didn’t know what it was like to truly have no one. He knew what it was like to _wish_ that he was on his own, but someone had always been there to drag him back from the depths. Victor, though, had been forced to make his own way in the world, with no one to turn to for support when he needed it most. With parents and grandfather gone, and Sherlock so strung out he might as well have been dead for all the good it did, Victor had needed to find his own way without any help after Nero’s birth. And he did.

 

He always had been the stronger of the two of them.


	2. Chapter 2

Mary offered to go with to the airport to meet Nero on Monday, but Sherlock declined. As much as he hated braving the public alone, especially in high-traffic areas where he was more likely to be recognised, this reunion was something he didn’t want anyone else witnessing. He couldn’t put into words exactly why that was.

 

Heathrow at six on a Monday morning was just shy of bustling. The real crowds would start coming through in the next couple of hours. Sherlock monitored the progress of Nero’s plane via an app on his phone, and though it landed on time, he knew it would be a while before Nero cleared customs. He waited in the luggage claim area, the collar of his jacket popped and a baseball cap mostly covering his distinctive curls. Without his Belstaff, he could usually pass through a crowd unnoticed, but his height and hair sometimes gave him away anyway.

 

He’d spent some time last night on Nero’s Facebook page. His privacy settings were woefully lax, and as such Sherlock was able to glean some more information about the boy. Like how he played the guitar, and how he preferred art classes over his other academic subjects, and how generally the same group of ten friends interacted with him online. He’d also inherited Sherlock’s dark curls and lanky frame, and his mother’s eyes and lips were more apparent now than when he was a baby.

 

And despite all of that knowledge, Sherlock was still unprepared when he finally spotted Nero in the crowd slowly trickling down to the luggage claim area from customs. The boy wasn’t difficult to find, given his height. He could easily have looked Sherlock in the eye; perhaps he was even an inch or two taller. His hair was shorter, but not by much. It was a dark mop on his head, and the humidity in the air made it curl and frizz. He was wearing dark-rimmed glasses and had a backpack slung over one shoulder. His bleary eyes scanned the crowd, and he didn’t notice Sherlock until Sherlock lifted a hand to flag him down. Nero immediately went over to him, cutting through the crowd that was moving in the opposite direction toward their bags.

 

“Hey,” Nero said, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and gave a shaky smile as he tried again. “Hi, Sherlock.”

 

He held out his hand, which Sherlock shook.

 

“You’ve grown,” was all Sherlock could think to say when he finally found his voice. Nero’s smile eased.

 

“I’d hope so,” he said with a crooked smirk that Sherlock recognised as something that was purely Victor. He felt a sharp pang and buried the feeling before he could examine it too closely. “Either that, or you shrank.”

 

Sherlock snorted. Up close, he could see that he had judged correctly - Nero had a good two inches on him.

 

“You must tower over your father,” Sherlock said. “Even I look down on him. Only literally, of course.”

 

“Yeah, he hates it,” Nero said. “Um - I should probably go get my bag. Don’t move, okay?”

 

Sherlock assured him that he wasn’t going anywhere, and Nero moved over to the luggage claim belt. Only then did Sherlock let out a slow breath, noticing how his heart was hammering in his chest and how his palms felt clammy. It was absurd, of course. It was only Nero. What did he have to be nervous about?

 

It was a little over half an hour back to the flat. Sherlock had borrowed John and Mary’s car in order to pick Nero up, and he drove them back to Baker Street. Nero was quiet, seemingly content to look out of the window as they zipped through the London streets. He asked Sherlock about the occasional building, and he went completely silent about fifteen minutes from home. Sherlock glanced over and realised it was because he had fallen asleep.

 

“Didn’t sleep much on the plane?” Sherlock asked when he had parked and gently shaken Nero awake. Nero took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He shook his head.

 

“No. I don’t sleep on planes. Too noisy.”

 

Mrs Hudson was already awake. Sherlock half-suspected she had been listening for their arrival, for her door opened the moment that they stepped into the building.

 

“James!” she exclaimed, throwing out her arms. “Oh, it’s so good to see you!”

 

“Hi, Mrs H,” Nero said, not bothering to correct her in regards to his name. He allowed himself to be pulled into a hug.

 

“You’ve grown so much,” she said as she pulled back. She patted his cheek. “And you’re turning out to be such a handsome young man! Just like Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said loudly, “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. We’ll be going now.”

 

He led the way up to the flat. He let them both in, and Nero dropped his bags gratefully just inside the door.

 

“May have packed too much,” he said dryly, rubbing his shoulder. “I wasn’t sure how much I’d need.”

 

“Is this the farthest you’ve ever traveled from home?” Sherlock asked as he went into the kitchen.

 

Nero nodded. “First time I’ve been out of the country, too. Well, no, that’s not true. Dad and I pop up to Canada now and again. He likes to go camping up there. But that’s not too far from us, so it doesn’t feel like I’ve gone anywhere.”

 

Sherlock put on the kettle for tea, and then he set about making breakfast while Nero sat at the table. That had been Mary’s idea - well, she had insisted, really. Make him breakfast, the first thing you do, she’d instructed. He’s had a long flight, and aeroplane food is crap. Sherlock could cook when he put his mind to it; it was just that most of the time it was too much of a bother.

 

“Are you going to fall asleep before the eggs are done?” he asked lightly. Nero had his chin resting in his hand, and his eyes were heavy-lidded.

 

“No, promise I won’t,” he said with a lopsided smile. “Maybe after, though.”

 

“Go put your stuff upstairs while you’re waiting,” Sherlock said. “The bedroom up there is all yours. And don’t fall asleep up there.”

 

“Okay.” Nero stretched, his shoulders popping, and then pushed his chair back from the table. “I need to call Dad, anyway. Let him know I got here.”

 

“Yes, please do. Or he’s going to come over here himself and skin me alive.”

 

Nero was gone long enough for the eggs to finish cooking and for Sherlock to make some toast. He inhaled the food in about half the time it took to cook it, which Sherlock marveled at, and then insisted on washing his dishes.

  
“I’ve got to return the car to John and Mary,” Sherlock told him. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

 

“Okay,” Nero said. He threw an apologetic look over his shoulder. “I might be napping by then.”

 

“I hope so. You look dead on your feet.” Sherlock picked up the keys and headed toward the door. And then the Mary-voice in his head reminded him to say, “But not for too long, or you’re never going to adjust to the time difference.”

 

“Hey, Sherlock?”

 

He turned around. “Yes?”

 

Nero smiled at him. “Thanks. For having me, I mean.”

 

Sherlock nodded, and left.

 

\----

 

Lestrade’s assumption had been correct - Nero _was_ a spitting image of Sherlock. Nero took after him in other ways, though, too. Most noticeably, he was reticent, giving answers when asked questions but generally not volunteering much information. Sherlock didn’t value conversation, not when deduction worked just as well - if not better - but in this case he found that the subject of his study was too close to home, and he couldn’t read very much on Nero. His body language only gave so much away. Even more baffling than that, Sherlock realized that he _wanted_ to talk with this boy, to pry his life open and examine it; to simply _hear_ the sound of his voice.

 

But he remembered his own teenage years, his own reluctance to share every detail of his life with his parents, and thankfully refrained from voicing every single question that came to mind. When Nero woke from a short nap later that morning, they went out for lunch, and then for a walk in Central London. Nero remembered a little bit about the area from his childhood, but he peppered Sherlock with questions anyway, and he took in the sights around them with wide-eyed curiosity.

 

“How long have you lived here?” Nero asked at one point. They were in a cafe, their last stop before returning to Baker Street. Nero’s energy was fading fast, and it was nearing twilight anyway.

 

“In Baker Street? Seven years,” Sherlock said. “But I moved to London right after university.”

 

He hoped Nero wouldn’t pry too much into those early years. He’d spent some time in a flophouse on Montague Street, then years drifting from one run-down flat to another. It hadn’t been a particularly appealing or dignified existence.

 

“Dad misses it here, I think,” Nero said. “He talks about it, sometimes. Talks about Cambridge, too. Is it true you two met because Oliver bit you?”

 

Sherlock choked on his coffee. He coughed to clear his throat, and then wheezed, “I can’t believe he told you that.”

 

Nero’s mouth quirked. “So it _is_ true.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, acutely aware that the back of his neck was flushed in embarrassment. “He had the blasted thing off its leash, and I was out for a run when I came across them. That damn dog chased me down. Not my proudest moment, having a lab sink his teeth into my leg and knock me down, then stand on my chest and bark at me like I was some _toy_ he had just fetched. Victor could hardly stop laughing. His dog had just mauled me, and he found it hysterical!”

 

“That doesn’t really sound like Oliver,” Nero said as he laughed. “He was always really well-behaved.”

 

“Yes, well, I think that incident is what pushed Victor to finally get him some kind of training,” Sherlock said dryly. “Good thing, too, since you came along just two years later. How long did he live?”

 

He realised a beat too late that it was rather an insensitive question, and pain flashed across Nero’s face for a moment before his expression cleared.

 

“He died when I was twelve. He was really old by that point - I think fifteen or so. It hit Dad pretty hard. We only just got another dog last year.”

 

Nero brightened as he pulled out his mobile and showed Sherlock pictures of the new dog - another lab, which was Victor’s preferred breed. Gradually, discussion of the dog led to Nero revealing other aspects of his life with Victor. He talked about their cozy Brooklyn row house, his school, the traveling he did with Victor during term holidays (because Victor was never one to sit still for very long). Sherlock learned that Victor had a wide circle of friends - and (at least at the moment) no significant other. Nero, on the other hand, preferred to operate within a small, tight-knit unit of friends, most of whom he had known since he started school in America nine years ago. He also was dating a girl named Jess, but was adamant about the fact that she wasn’t his girlfriend - just a girl he happened to be dating. Sort of.

 

“It’s complicated, Sherlock,” Nero said with a long-suffering sigh as they trudged up the stairs to the flat later that evening. “You wouldn’t understand.”

 

Sherlock refrained from pointing out that he knew a little bit about complicated relationships. It didn’t really get much more complicated than loving a man you couldn’t seem to stop hurting.

 

Nero finally turned in at nine - early for him, but it was as late as he could manage what with jet lag still pulling at him. He would probably be up early the next morning as a result, but at least he was falling asleep at night instead of the middle of the day. Sherlock turned in a couple of hours after that.

 

He was dodging a hail of Serbian bullets when someone started shouting his name, and Sherlock tried to call out to them to be quiet - they were going to give away his position. He was sprinting through a forest, getting smacked in the face by sharp branches and hoping that the pain in his side was from his exertion, and not from a bullet he hadn’t felt land its mark. Again, someone called his name, and Sherlock turned his head in the direction the sound had come from, frantically searching for a face.

 

Sharp pain exploded across the side of Sherlock’s head and hip. He instinctively covered his head as the _rat-tat-tat_ of gunfire continued to sound in the distance -

 

\- And he came to on the bedroom floor, his hip and head aching while someone knocked repeatedly on his door.

 

“Sherlock?” Nero’s voice was tentative. He knocked a few more times, then rested his hand on the handle. “Sherlock? Are you all right?”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock managed to croak. His tongue felt too large for his mouth, and his throat was dry. Fragments of the nightmare flashed across his mind, and he tried to shake them off. “I’m – I’m fine. Go back to bed, Nero.”

 

He heard Nero’s hand fall away from the door handle, but Nero hesitated. “Are you sure? I - could help.”

 

Sherlock almost laughed. What could Nero do that trained psychiatrists hadn’t managed? But his offer was pure Victor, and Sherlock’s throat constricted. How alike those two were.

 

“I just fell out of bed,” Sherlock said, fighting to keep his voice steady. It was a blatant lie and Nero would be able to tell, but hopefully he wouldn’t question it. “I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

Nero refrained from pointing out that it already technically _was_ morning. After a moment of hesitation, he quietly wished Sherlock good night and went up the stairs to his room again.

 

Sherlock pushed himself up off the bedroom floor and walked on shaky legs to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face. He regarded his pale reflection in the mirror and wondered, for the first time, just what he had gotten himself into.

 

 _What are you trying to prove?_ a voice that sounded too much like Victor asked him.

 

Sherlock snapped off the lights and padded back to bed.

 

 

 

Sherlock woke the next morning after a fitful four hours of sleep and lay there in bed, bathed in grey pre-dawn light, his mind a whirlwind. After the adrenaline surrounding the events of the previous day - meeting Nero, showing him around the flat and the surrounding streets, answering his myriad questions, the nightmare - Sherlock suddenly felt as though he had been cast adrift. They had an entire week ahead of them, and now that they had made it this far he had no idea what to do with Nero. He hadn’t even thought through their visit of Cambridge, because whenever he envisioned it in his head, it sounded ridiculous. How could he tour Nero around the university? _This is where I used to get high. This is where I went whenever I skipped lectures. This is my old room, where once I started a small fire. This is where I almost kissed your father._

 

Sherlock groaned and rolled over, shoving his head beneath his pillows as though he could ward off his insistent thoughts. But of course, now that the thoughts had been stirred, he couldn’t push them aside.

 

He and Victor had never dated, never had sex, and (apart from Sherlock’s occasional fleeting fantasies) never kissed. To say that Victor had been a friend, though, even a close one, seemed inadequate. Every friendship Sherlock had formed in the years since - with Lestrade, with Molly, even with John - paled in comparison to the bond he had once shared with Victor. That, of course, had made the loss of his friendship all the more painful. And it wasn’t just what they had shared that Sherlock had lost, but also the possibility of any kind of future.

 

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Sherlock chided himself for it. It was a foolish, absurd fantasy. Even if he and Victor were on speaking terms, there was too much history between them. And beyond that, there were practical obstacles to consider: Victor would take practically anyone to bed, while Sherlock had no interest in sex. He had once had a mild curiosity about it, but experimentation in university had cured him of it. Well, that and Nero’s conception.

 

Sherlock threw back the covers and got out of bed, his restless thoughts following him as he showered and dressed. Nero got up at seven, far more chipper than he had any right to be, and he made himself breakfast while Sherlock sipped his coffee and tried to wake himself up. He needed to stop thinking about Victor and focus on what he _did_ have - Nero in his kitchen, chattering happily at him, seemingly unperturbed by all the years that had passed without them seeing each other.

 

The issue of what they were going to do was solved later that morning. Sherlock got a call from Lestrade while Nero was in the shower, requesting his presence at a crime scene on the banks of the Thames. When Nero found out that Sherlock was leaving for a few hours to take a look, he immediately asked if he could go along.

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sherlock said.

 

“Is Dr Watson going to be there?” Nero asked.

 

“No, he’s at work.”

 

“Then you need me to come,” Nero said smugly. “You _need_ an assistant. It says so on his blog.”

 

Sherlock sighed. That infernal blog.

 

“It will probably be boring,” he tried.

 

“A dead body, boring? I don’t think so,” Nero snorted.

 

“Don’t let your father hear you say that.”

 

Nero mimed zipping his lips, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“Fine. You can come, but we need to establish some ground rules,” Sherlock said. He grabbed his wallet and slid it into his back pocket and then plucked his keys from the fruit bowl. “We’ll take the same cab over, but you aren’t to walk up to the crime scene tape with me. Let me get a head start, and then follow. You will then stay _behind_ the crime scene tape and watch from there.”

 

“Aw, come on, Sherlock!” Nero protested. “I won’t touch anything!”

 

“I know,” Sherlock said. “But that’s not the issue here. Ever since the incident with Moriarty, the press has been particularly interested in me. My death and subsequent return only fueled their interest. They have a tendency to camp out at crime scenes now, waiting to see if I’ll make an appearance.”

 

“And they don’t know about me,” Nero said, catching on quickly. Sherlock inclined his head.

 

“Your father has worked very hard to make sure you have a quiet, private life,” he said. “He’ll have my head if your face ends up plastered across all the tabloids.”

 

“Yeah, I suppose,” Nero said. He looked slightly disappointed. “Don’t suppose you have a ball cap?”

 

Sherlock frowned at him in confusion, and Nero gestured to his hair with a rueful smile. “It’ll be kind of obvious to the reporters who I got this from.”

 

“Oh, right.” Sherlock fetched one from his wardrobe and set it cock-eyed on Nero’s head. “Yes, much better.”

 

“Git,” Nero muttered, adjusting the cap so it was sitting on his head correctly. “Right, where to?”

 

The cab ride took them ten minutes. Sherlock had the cab stop a good distance from the crime scene, and they got out together. He took off for the crime scene, striding quickly ahead of Nero, who took his time and blended slowly into the crowd that was gathering behind the tape.

 

“Took you long enough,” Donovan said as Sherlock ducked under the tape.

 

“Yes, well, I’m here now, so this had better be interesting,” Sherlock said. He got his first glimpse of the body then, as one of the forensics technicians moved out of the way. “Oh.”

 

“Sufficiently interesting for you, Holmes?” Donovan asked as Sherlock approached the body. He dropped into a crouch. The man was face-down on the bank of the Thames. His body was headless and there was a noticeable lack of blood surrounding him.

 

“It’s getting there,” Sherlock said. He pulled out his magnifying glass to inspect some of the threads on the man’s collar. “He was obviously killed and beheaded elsewhere, given the lack of blood.”

 

“Yeah, we’ve figured that much out,” Lestrade said as he approached. “Did you happen to take a look at his hand?”

 

Lestrade dropped into a crouch and turned over the victim’s hand for Sherlock to see. The number _4_ had been etched onto the back of his right hand. It looked like an antemortem wound, but he would need to talk to Molly to be certain.

 

“So our friend has returned,” Sherlock said under his breath. He thought for a moment, and realised that it _was_ Tuesday - and precisely three weeks after the last killing. In all the excitement surrounding Nero, that small detail had completely slipped his mind.  “Interesting. And we still haven’t found the first victim?”

 

Lestrade shook his head. “No. But we didn’t catch on about the pattern until the third victim. It’s entirely possible that the first victim was cremated or buried without anyone realizing that he had a number carved into his skin. Or if they did notice, they didn’t think it was worth making note of.”

 

The forensics technicians continued to flit around them, collecting evidence and taking photographs. Lestrade leaned closer to Sherlock and added in a low voice, “Did you bring Nero to a crime scene?”

 

“He’s staying behind the tape,” Sherlock said absently. He held his hand out, and someone automatically slapped a pair of gloves into his palm.

 

“Not the point, Sherlock,” Lestrade said with a sigh, but he didn’t pursue it. “All right, come on, what have you got?”

 

While he rattled off what he could tell Lestrade about the victim and his death, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and texted Nero: _Meet me in front of the shop across the street in fifteen minutes._

 

“That was so cool!” Nero gushed when Sherlock met up with him. They rounded a corner and started down a mostly-empty street. Sherlock glanced behind them to ensure that no photographers had followed him from the crime scene. They had evidently lost interest.

 

“Don’t let your father hear you say that,” Sherlock said dryly. He felt as though he was going to be reminding Nero of that a lot this week.

 

“Seriously, though, did he really have no head?”

 

“Yes, it’d been cut off, apparently. Probably hacked off with a meat cleaver.” Sherlock threw out a hand and hailed them a cab. Nero gaped at him.

 

“ _Whoa_.”

 

“I have to make a stop at the morgue,” Sherlock said as a cab slowed down and pulled up to the kerb for them. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you want to be dropped off at Baker Street on the way?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“I didn’t think so.”

 

Molly was on duty at the morgue, and she looked up from her computer as Sherlock breezed into her lab.

 

“I was wondering when you’d make an appearance,” she said, and then paused when she saw Nero. “Oh, hello.”

 

“I’m James,” Nero said, sticking out his hand for her to shake.

 

“This is Molly Hooper, Nero. You don’t need to keep up pretenses around her. She already knows about you,” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. “Molly, this is Nero.”

 

“Oh!” Molly shook Nero’s hand and gave him a broad smile. “Hello, Nero. Sherlock’s been really looking forward to your visit.”

 

“Really?” Nero asked, sounding surprised.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and asked, “Molly? The body?”

 

“Oh, right.” Molly got up from her seat and led them both into the morgue. The body from the Thames had beaten them to the morgue, and it had already been laid out on a slab. A white sheet covered him, but it was still obvious that there was nothing underneath where the head should have been. “What did you need to look at?”

 

“Not sure what I’m looking for yet,” Sherlock said. “So, everything, please.”

 

“Right.” Molly removed the sheet for him. The body was naked now. The dead man’s suit was likely in an evidence bag somewhere, or already being processed by forensics.

 

“Ew,” Nero stated simply, but when Sherlock turned around, he was staring in wide-eyed fascination at the body.

 

Molly laughed. “I’ll leave you two to it, shall I?”

 

“He’s not going to bite, Nero,” Sherlock said as he once again pulled out his magnifying glass. There were some strange marks on the man’s chest. It could be something, or it could be nothing at all.

 

“Thanks, I’m good,” Nero said. He was standing several feet away. He had removed his ball cap and was fiddling with the strap.

 

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Sherlock said. He pulled out his mobile and snapped a few pictures of the man’s chest, and then took a picture of his hand.

 

“Is that legal?” Nero asked.

 

“No,” Sherlock said.

 

“Uncle Greg lets you get away with a lot, huh?”

 

Sherlock looked up in some surprise. “I didn’t think you’d remember him.”

 

“ ‘Course I do,” Nero said. “Did he recognise me?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He went back to his work. “He would have come over to say hello, but that would have drawn attention to you.”

 

“Oh.” Nero was quiet for a while as Sherlock continued his close-up examination of the body. “Can I ask you something?”

 

“Shoot,” Sherlock said, borrowing a phrase from John.

 

“Were you and Dad boyfriends?”

 

“What?” Sherlock was so startled by the question, he choked on the word.

 

Nero held up a hand. “Sorry, I was just curious.”

 

Sherlock shook his head and returned to his work. Nero went on.

 

“I know he’s bi. He’s had boyfriends before. Coupla girlfriends, too.” Nero was still worrying the hat between his fingers. “Doesn’t ever stay with ‘em more than a couple of years, though.”

 

“No.” Sherlock turned his attention back to the body. “No, we were just friends.”

 

“You’re kinda his type, you know. And –“

 

“Nero,” Sherlock interrupted. “There was never anything between me and Victor.”

 

And there won’t be, he added to himself as he finished up his work and covered up the body once again. Not after all they had put each other through over the years.

 

\----

 

Sherlock spent the afternoon chasing down some more leads with Nero at his side. They were all dead ends, though, and even Nero was frustrated by it.

 

“How can you stand this?” he asked in their fourth cab ride that day. Sherlock wanted to interview the victim’s wife. “You aren’t getting _anywhere_.”

 

“Patience, Nero,” Sherlock said, even though he had the self-awareness to realise that he was the last person who should be lecturing someone else about patience. “Sometimes the smallest detail is the one that cracks the case.”

 

The interview revealed nothing of interest, unfortunately. The victim’s widow hadn’t been the last person to see him alive, and therefore her recounting of the previous day was useless. They took the Tube on the way back, because for some reason the cabs were elusive and Sherlock was impatient.

 

He wasn’t sure what started it - perhaps the change in air quality - but Nero started coughing almost as soon as they were on the platform. Sherlock wasn’t concerned by it until they got on the train, when the coughing stopped but Nero seemed to be having difficulty catching his breath. He knew immediately what was wrong, and remembered Victor’s advice to stay calm.

 

“Nero, do you have your inhaler on you?” he asked gently. Nero shook his head.

 

“Left it behind,” he whispered. “Stupid.”

 

“You were in a hurry this morning,” Sherlock said soothingly, mentally berating himself, because _he_ should have at least remembered it. “It’s alright. We’re almost there.”

 

Nero was audibly wheezing by the time they got back to Baker Street, and he looked at the seventeen steps leading up to the flat with trepidation.

 

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said, putting a hand under his elbow. “Come on. Let’s get upstairs and find your inhaler.”

 

But the inhaler only slightly eased Nero’s symptoms. His breath was still rattling in his chest and he was white as a sheet. Sherlock wasn’t exactly feeling calm himself, but he remembered Victor’s words about not making it worse.

 

“Sit down,” he said, helping Nero onto the sofa. “Where’s your nebulizer? In your suitcase?”

 

Nero nodded shakily, and Sherlock went upstairs to retrieve the device. He attached the adapter to the cord and then plugged it in behind the sofa, then set to work connecting the tubing to the compressor. He’d looked up how to use one online shortly before Nero’s visit, in the event that something like this occurred. Nero tried to help, but his hands were shaking too badly.

 

“Relax,” Sherlock instructed as he filled the medicine cup. When everything had been properly connected, he handed the mouthpiece to Nero, who placed it in his mouth. Sherlock switched on the machine. “Now just breathe.”

 

Nero gave him a look that clearly said he knew how to do this, and better than Sherlock did at that. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder and got to his feet. He went into the kitchen to make some tea, which apparently was now how he dealt with stress - Mary was rubbing off on him - and he pulled out his mobile to text Victor while he was at it.

 

_Nero is fine, but he’s had to use the nebulizer. What do I do?_

 

Victor texted back right away. _Is he okay? The medicine is working?_

 

 _It seems to be_ , Sherlock replied. Nero had his eyes closed, a furrow between his brows as he concentrated. His breaths were shallow, but his chest was rising and falling steadily now. Some colour had also returned to his cheeks. _He’s scared._

 

Victor took a moment to reply to that one. _When he was little and had to use it, we’d watch TV together. Just to keep his mind off it a bit. It’s terrifying, not being able to breathe properly._

 

Victor was exercising some enormous restraint, Sherlock thought as he pocketed the phone and went to pour the tea, in not calling him immediately. He appreciated the trust, even if he wasn’t sure that it was deserved. The same went for Nero. The boy trusted him, wholly and implicitly, and Sherlock had done nothing but provide the genetic material that allowed him to come into existence. Sentiment.

 

Nero opened his eyes as Sherlock threw a blanket across his legs. He was just finishing off the last of the medication, and he pulled the mouthpiece out.

 

“Better?” Sherlock asked, taking it from him. He went into the kitchen to place it in the sink, and then returned with the two cups of tea.

 

“I think so,” Nero rasped. But he managed to take a deep breath, and he was no longer wheezing. “Sorry. I don’t know what it was that started it.”

 

He drank some tea. Sherlock sat down next to him and flipped on the television. He found one of the programmes John had always declared to be crap telly and said to Nero, “I can tell you who the father is right now.”

 

Nero rolled his eyes and leaned against him. “Sure you can.”

 

Sherlock nodded to the figures on the television. “It’s her brother-in-law.”

 

“That’s not even an option!” Nero laughed, pointing at the three men sitting next to the woman on the cheap stage. “You can’t say that if it isn’t even an option.”

 

When Sherlock was proved right half an hour later, Nero turned to stare at him, mouth agape.

 

“How did you know that?” he demanded.

 

“I need to keep some secrets,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “Not telling.”

 

“Oh, come _on_.” Nero stared at him imploringly, but Sherlock just shook his head. Nero sighed and tipped his head back against the sofa. “I hate you.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “No, you don’t.”

 

Nero fell asleep half an hour later. His head fell to the side and rested against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock knew that he wouldn’t be able to move without disturbing him. He switched the channel to a programme that was less mind-numbing and managed to give Nero an hour of undisturbed rest. His mind drifted to the last time Nero had fallen asleep on him, when he was four years old and could still fit on Sherlock’s lap. It was difficult to comprehend that the little boy who’d once been so fascinated by him was also the young man who was sitting next to him now. He hadn’t seen the gradual changes, like Victor had. It seemed surreal.

 

As the clock approached midnight, Sherlock’s arm was beginning to fall asleep and Nero was going to wake up with a crick in his neck if he stayed as he was for much longer. Sherlock eased himself off the sofa and, as predicted, Nero woke at the movement.

 

“Hm?” he mumbled, blinking blearily up at Sherlock.

 

“Nothing. Come on, lie down,” Sherlock said, and Nero did so without comment. He stretched out on the sofa and promptly fell asleep again. Sherlock tossed the blanket over his thin frame and removed his glasses, setting them carefully on the nearby table so Nero could find them easily in the morning. He then went to retire to his own room.

 

He had made it as far as the kitchen when his pocket buzzed, and he dug out his mobile to find a text from Victor.

 

_How is he?_

 

Sherlock went back into the living room long enough to snap a picture of Nero sleeping peacefully on the sofa and sent it to Victor without comment. Five minutes later, as he was brushing his teeth, his phone buzzed again.

 

_Thank you for taking care of him._

 

\----

 

They spent the next morning at the Yard, because Sherlock had some files that he needed to see, and he also needed to know what kind of progress forensics was making on processing the evidence. It was there that Nero finally got his reunion with Lestrade, when Sherlock breezed into his office unannounced and interrupted the phone call he was making.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, can’t you give me one bloody -” Lestrade hissed, slapping a hand over the mouthpiece to muffle his words. Then he caught sight of Nero. “Er - I’m gonna have to call you back. Yeah, bye.”

 

He rang off and got up from his desk. Nero grinned as he stuck out his hand, but Lestrade batted it aside and pulled him into a tight hug instead.

 

“I was wondering when this one was going to bring you by,” Lestrade said. He pulled back and ruffled Nero’s hair. “Christ, you’ve grown.”

 

“I’ve been getting that a lot.” Nero ran his fingers through his hair with a laugh. “Hi, Uncle Greg.”

 

“Hey, champ. How’s your dad?”

 

“He’s good. He told me to say hi. And that he wants a rematch, whatever that means.”

 

Lestrade snorted. “You tell him he better be prepared to lose just as spectacularly as last time. So, what’ve you two been up to? Has Sherlock just been dragging you to crime scenes?”

 

“Just the one, but it’s been brilliant,” Nero said enthusiastically. “And I got to see the morgue yesterday, and he says he’s going to take me down to forensics today.”

 

Lestrade lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock, who shrugged innocently.

 

“All right, just make sure he doesn’t sneak anything out. He’s done that before,” Lestrade said dryly. Nero laughed.

 

“I promise.”

 

It seemed that it was no longer a secret at the Yard that Nero was Sherlock’s biological child, and they were met with mild interest wherever they went in the building. Even Sally, who had a grudging respect for Sherlock but didn’t like him, stopped to chat politely with Nero for a few minutes before going on her way.

 

Forensics hadn’t made the progress Sherlock had hoped for, so the trip was a waste from that standpoint, but Nero looked as though he was having the time of his life, so Sherlock found that he didn’t feel too frustrated overall.

 

They went to Angelo’s for dinner, and Angelo regaled Nero with the story of how Sherlock had got him off a murder charge (Sherlock only had to interject a couple of times to correct Angelo’s fanciful retelling of the story).

 

They were scarcely back in the flat after dinner when Nero turned to Sherlock and said, “Hey, do you mind if I go out and catch a movie with some friends?”

 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. “Friends?”

 

“Yeah - some guys I went to primary school with. I found them on the internet last week. They want to hang out.”

 

Well, Nero didn’t get his social tendencies from him, that was for certain. Bemused, Sherlock let him go, and Nero was out on the street again moments later, hailing down a cab as though he’d been doing it his whole life. Which, come to think of it, he probably had, given that he’d spent the last nine years of his life in New York City. Sherlock, now devoid of plans for the evening, checked his neglected website and answered a few emails. Then, on an impulse, he dug his mobile out of his pocket and hit the first number on his speed dial list.

 

Victor picked up on the fourth ring.

 

“ ‘lo?” he said in a sleep-roughened voice. Sherlock was momentarily taken aback.

 

“Sorry, did I wake you?”

 

“Sherlock?” Victor cleared his throat. When he spoke again, he sounded more alert. “No. Well, yeah, but I shouldn’t have been sleeping. Bloody jet lag. Is Nero okay?”

 

“What? Oh, yes. He’s fine. He’s out with friends tonight.” Sherlock tossed his ball into the air and caught it. “You didn’t warn me about his short attention span. I’m already boring.”

  
Victor snorted. “Welcome to the club, and get used to it. Teenagers are also smelly and noisy. Just for future reference. Did you need something?”

 

“No, I -” Sherlock found himself at a loss for words. This was what they had done, back before the final falling out. Whenever they had a spare moment, they called each other. In the morning, in the evening, in the middle of the night when they couldn’t sleep. With Nero here now, it was easy to convince himself that nothing had changed between him and Victor. Calling him had seemed the natural course of action. And so he covered it up with a change of topic. “How is the conference?”

 

Victor was quiet a moment before answering. “I haven’t really got a feel for it yet. The sessions today were informative, if overwhelming. I’ve got dinner plans in a few hours with some of the other attendees.”

 

“Berlin is beautiful.”

 

“It is,” Victor agreed. “My German is rusty, though. I should’ve brushed up before the conference.”

 

“It will come back to you. You always did have a knack for it.”

 

“Yeah, well…” Victor trailed off, and the conversation seemed to dry up. Sherlock couldn’t find words for all that he wanted to say, mostly because he didn’t know if it would be welcome in the first place. Probably not. Victor saved him from floundering further by suddenly asking, “Have you got any cases you’re working on?”

 

“Nothing at the moment apart from an apparent serial killer,” Sherlock said. “We’ve hit an impasse at the moment, so even that can’t even really be called a case.”

 

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” Victor cleared his throat. “Listen, as nice as it is to have a conversation with you that doesn’t involve yelling, if there’s nothing you wanted to talk about…”

 

Victor let the sentence hang. Sherlock’s good mood evaporated as he realised how unwelcome his phone call was. Really, what had he been expecting? Even he couldn’t put into words exactly why he’d called Victor.

 

“Quite right,” he said, rallying. “No, there’s nothing I particularly wanted to talk about. Goodbye, Victor.”

 

He rang off, feeling hollow and more than a little dejected.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Mary invited them over for dinner the next night. Sherlock could tell that Nero was nervous about it, though why that would be eluded him.

 

“Just be yourself,” he said while they waited for someone to answer the door. He could have easily picked the lock, but he probably shouldn’t be giving Nero bad habits that he would take home to Victor.

 

Nero gave an unsure smile. “I just want them to like me.”

 

“If they like me, they’ll like anyone.”

 

John answered the door. He lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock as though to say, Really, _now’s_ the time you decide to not break into my house?

 

Sherlock shook his head and introduced them. “Nero, this is John Watson. John, Nero.”

 

Nero and John shook hands, and John showed him where to put his shoes.

 

“Poor kid, he inherited your nose,” he said in an undertone to Sherlock when Nero had turned away.

 

“Thankfully, Madeleine wasn’t saddled with any of your features,” Sherlock shot back as they followed Nero down the hall and into the living room. John laughed.

 

“Mary’s upstairs. She’ll be down in a minute,” John said. He picked Madeleine up off the floor and set her on his hip. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

 

Nero shook his head, and Sherlock said, “Scotch, neat.”

 

“I was asking Nero. You can get your own damn drink,” John said with an amused smirk.

 

“Language,” Mary scolded John as she came into the room, but she softened it with a smile. “Husband, sometimes you can be impossible.”

 

“I know. Nero, this is my wife, Mary.”

 

She shook Nero’s hand and then introduced Madeleine, who decided that she was going to be shy tonight and hid her face in John’s shoulder.

 

“Sherlock’s her godfather,” Mary went on cheerfully, stroking Madeleine’s back in an effort to coax her out and have her say hello. “He’s _wonderful_ with her. Remind me later on to bring out her baby pictures. He used to fall asleep on the sofa with her all the time. And she gets him to play dress-up with her.”

 

“Mary, please,” Sherlock said, feeling a flush creep up his neck. Nero flashed him a wicked smile.

 

“I can’t wait to see them,” he told Mary, and Sherlock sighed.

 

They all sat down at the table, which had already been set. Food had been placed in serving dishes in the middle of the table, and the china they were to eat off of only ever came out at Christmas. Mary and John were making far too big a deal out of this occasion, Sherlock thought. It was also a stark reminder just how rare this occasion was - Sherlock truly had no idea when he would see Nero again after this week. Even when Nero was no longer part of Victor’s household and out on his own, would he want to keep up these visits? Or would he return home, his curiosity satisfied and content to let the silence between them grow once more? And what did Sherlock want to have happen?

 

No one noticed his contemplative silence, since he was usually quiet and pensive anyway. He took the dishes as they were passed to him, spooned food onto his plate, and then handed them off to Nero one-by-one.

 

“So what does your dad do?” Mary asked Nero as they started to eat. “I’m afraid we don’t know much about him.”

 

“He’s a history teacher,” Nero told her.

 

“Oh? Does he teach at your school?”

 

“Yeah.” Nero made a face. “But we don’t have the same last name, so it’s alright. Most of the kids there don’t know he’s my dad.”

 

“Well, you don’t go by Holmes, or you’d have the press breaking down your door every day,” John said.

 

“Yeah, I was given Mum’s last name. Wolfe. Dad wanted me to have something to remember her by, even though I never knew her. And yeah, he’s a pretty private person. Doesn’t really like the press, especially not after what they said about you after your, er, suicide,” Nero said to Sherlock. “He was pretty upset.”

 

“Was he?” Sherlock tried to make it sound nonchalant, but it surprised him to hear that Victor had been upset on his behalf. It was a comforting thought, though, that warmed him from the inside.

 

“Ranted about it for ages. He’s pretty level-headed, most days.” Nero directed that last sentence at Mary, returning to her line of questioning. “Really calm and everything; think that’s why he’s such a good teacher. Me, I’d never be able to do it. But when he gets his teeth into something…”

 

Nero shook his head as he trailed off, and Mary laughed. Sherlock smiled to himself, too, because that sounded precisely like the Victor he remembered.

 

Mary didn’t let up on the questioning after that - she wanted to know everything about Nero’s life. He told her about his school, and what his favourite subjects were. He talked about his friends, and about playing the guitar, and about the camping trips he took with Victor.

 

“And what do you want to study at university?” Mary asked.

 

At that, Nero became subdued. He poked at his food and said off-handedly, “Oh, I dunno. Maybe architecture. I like designing things. Dad would be happier if I went for a science. He’s always going on about how Sherlock was a genius in chemistry.”

 

Sherlock would have had to be about as unobservant as a rock to miss the sudden note of bitterness in Nero’s voice, and Mary shot him a significant look. He thought he caught her meaning, and gave her a slight nod. She then swiftly changed the subject.

 

After dinner, John offered to show Nero some of his old case notes, and Sherlock helped Mary clean up the kitchen while Madeleine played in the other room.  

 

“Are you going to say anything to him?” she asked as Sherlock started to wash the dishes. She dried them and put them away.

 

“Not here,” Sherlock said. “Later, when we’re home.”

 

“Is Victor really like that, do you think?” Mary sounded concerned. “Wanting Nero to be something that he’s not?” She hesitated, and then tentatively added, “Wanting him to be like you?”

 

“No,” Sherlock said with a firm shake of his head. “We might not have spoken in years, but Victor’s probably the one person I know almost better than I know myself. He wouldn’t do that to Nero.”

 

Mary absorbed this and was quiet for a while. They continued their work in silence until she said, “You were in love with him.”

 

“Hm?” Sherlock looked up from the sudsy water.

 

“You were in love with Victor,” Mary said.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

“The look on your face when Nero was talking about him,” she said. She finished drying the plates and put them away. Sherlock turned his attention back to washing the remaining cutlery and glasses.

 

“We were just friends,” he said carefully.

 

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t have feelings for him,” Mary pointed out calmly. Sherlock wished she would stop pressing the issue. “Did you ever tell him?”

 

Sherlock finished scrubbing the cutlery and laid them out on the towel for Mary to begin drying. He then started in on the glasses, the repetition of his movements calming his thoughts.

 

“No,” he said finally.

 

“Are you going to?”

 

He shook his head. No, there was no point in bringing up the past, especially when it wasn’t going to change anything now.

 

They retired to the living room afterward, and Madeleine sat in Sherlock’s lap while he chatted with Mary. John and Nero eventually came back, and Nero sat next to Sherlock on the sofa while John went into the kitchen to fix coffee for everyone.

 

“She likes you, Nero,” Mary said with a laugh as Madeleine offered Nero one of her toys.

 

Nero took the doll and asked Madeleine, “Who’s this, then?”

 

“The victim!” Madeleine declared proudly. Sherlock snorted.

 

“She enjoys playing crime scene,” he explained to Nero, who handed the doll back to Madeleine.

 

“I can see that,” he said with a laugh. And then the smile faded slightly from his face. “You’re really good with her.”

 

Sherlock heard the unspoken words, which rattled in his head even after Nero turned away and started chatting with Mary.

 

_Why weren’t you like that with me?_

 

\----

 

The next day was going to be quiet, Sherlock resolved. He would only put in minimal work on the case, and they didn't have any social engagements planned.

 

He was well aware that even the best-laid plans could go awry, but for the most part the day was exactly what he wanted it to be. Nero read on the sofa in the living room for a few hours while Sherlock worked on some journal articles he was supposed to have submitted by the end of the month. Mrs Hudson made them both lunch, and in the afternoon Nero helped him with some experiments. He wasn’t terribly interested in the ones involving decay - especially on a full stomach - but he obligingly helped Sherlock count growth spots in petri dishes and enjoyed looking through the microscope at the slices of human brain Sherlock had mounted on slides.

 

They went to the shops later on for food, since there wasn’t really anything edible in the fridge and Sherlock was on his own cooking dinner tonight. Even Mrs Hudson was gone - out on a date, she said, which he didn’t want to spend too much time thinking about.

 

It was while they were browsing the aisles that it occurred to Sherlock that Mycroft had been quiet as of late - which was always unusual for him, but even more so when something momentous was happening in Sherlock’s life. Nero caught him eyeing the security camera when they were paying for their items, and asked him what was going on.

 

“My brother,” Sherlock said. Nero frowned at him as they collected their bags. As they were walking out the shop, he went on. “Mycroft. He has an irritating habit of interfering in my life. Hacking CCTV to spy on me, kidnapping my friends, that sort of thing.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Nero said in understanding. “He’s done that to Dad a few times.”

 

“What?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

 

“Yeah, at least once a year Dad will get done with classes and find a black car has come to pick him up from the school. He tells me about it after. I was with him the last time, though. We were going to drive home together, but Mycroft had other plans.” Nero wrinkled his nose. “Can’t believe he’s my uncle. Don’t much like him, t’be honest.”

 

“Mycroft flies out to New York once a year just to kidnap Victor?” Sherlock shouldn’t have been surprised, really. It sounded just like Mycroft.

 

“Yeah, well, I doubt he’ll do it any longer. Dad didn’t go with him last time. Decked him, in fact. Gave him a bloody nose. It was fantastic.”

 

Sherlock didn’t stop laughing until after they had arrived back at the flat.

 

He wasn’t as good a cook as Mary, but he could handle himself in the kitchen if necessary. Nero retreated to the room upstairs for some downtime, and Sherlock lost himself for a while in the rhythms of cooking a meal.

 

The kitchen quickly grew warm, and the small window didn’t do enough to dispel the heat. Sherlock rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and returned to his work, remembering all the tips that Mary had given him, trying to keep them all straight. He was a brilliant chemist but only an adequate cook, mostly from lack of practice. Cooking was tedious, and it took time and kitchen space away from more important experiments.

 

“Hey, Sherlock, smells good.” Nero appeared in the doorway. He crossed to the fridge and opened it.

 

“You can’t wait ten minutes?” Sherlock huffed.

 

“I’ll still be hungry, I promise.” Nero flashed him a grin. “Whatcha making -”

 

The smile disappeared from his face. Sherlock followed his gaze to his own wrists, and he realised then his mistake.

 

He was careful to cover up the marks left behind by the Serbian shackles when in public, but in the privacy of his own flat he allowed himself to roll up his sleeves or even wear the occasional t-shirt. He had long ago grown used to looking down at his wrists and seeing pink ridges of scarred flesh, but they would be a shock to someone who wasn’t expecting them.

 

Nero was too polite to ask about it, though. It was a restraint that he certainly didn’t get from Sherlock. But the conversation was dead and they both knew it, so he popped a couple of grapes into his mouth and said nothing at all.

 

“They’re from shackles,” Sherlock said after a beat. “I was held captive at one point during my years away. My bindings left some scars.”

 

It was an understatement, for he had undergone torture that left other scars that were covered by his shirt, and still others that were invisible except in the middle of the night, when he woke screaming.

 

“The other night,” Nero started. He stopped, chewed his lip, and finally said, “Was that a nightmare?”

 

“It happens,” Sherlock said guardedly. He really didn’t want to have to elaborate on that.

 

“I’m sorry,” Nero managed finally.

 

“I faked my death for good reason,” Sherlock said briskly, shaking his head to clear it of the memories and turning back to his task. “I don’t regret those years, except that they had to happen at all.”

 

He resumed slicing vegetables, and then paused.

 

“Please don’t mention this to your father,” he said after a moment, nodding at his wrists. Nero frowned.

 

“He doesn’t know?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I didn’t think it was necessary to tell him. It would only break his heart. I’ve done that enough.”

 

When they sat down to eat, Sherlock thought that it was about time they discussed visiting Cambridge. After all, Nero’s visit was already halfway over. They had the weekend to make the trip out to the university. As Sherlock suspected, though, Nero immediately clammed up when he mentioned it.

 

“Do you have anything in particular you want to see?”

 

Nero shrugged. “Dunno. Whatever you think is best.”

 

“You’re the one who wants to go there,” Sherlock pointed out. “What questions did you have about it?”

 

“Oh - the usual, I guess. What it was like to study there. Things like that,” Nero said vaguely.

 

Sherlock let the silence stretch between them for a few moments. Then, he said, “Victor doesn’t care that you’re not a genius.”

 

Nero dropped his gaze to his food. “Didn’t say he did.”

 

“You might as well have, last night at John and Mary’s.” Sherlock chewed for a moment, and then added, “And for that matter, neither do I. In fact, it’s - a mind like mine, it’s more than a burden, sometimes. I’m glad you’re free of that.”

 

“You’re glad I’m stupid, you mean.”

 

“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock reprimanded lightly. “You’re intelligent in your own way. Likeable, too. I certainly was never that. Victor loves you for who you are. You don’t need to try to prove yourself to him, or to be someone you’re not.”

 

They went for ice cream later that night, because Nero requested it. He had been quiet through the rest of dinner but perked up slightly when they were out of the flat. It was a chance to escape his thoughts, Sherlock surmised. A light mist started to fall while they were out, but it wasn’t much of a deterrent, and they strolled along the London streets as though it was the middle of a sunny day.

 

It was so close to being a quiet, uneventful day. Sherlock should have known better. They were about twenty minutes out from Baker Street when a shriek caused them both to whip around.

 

“Sherlock!” Nero shouted. But Sherlock was already off and running, chasing after a man who had pulled a knife on an unsuspecting woman. From the sound of quick feet behind him, he could tell that Nero had given chase as well, and silently he begged Nero to just turn around and go back to the flat. This wasn’t worth him risking himself for.

 

As it turned out, though, it was barely a risk at all. Sherlock easily caught up with the man and managed to trip him up - didn’t even have to tackle him - and he went sprawling. The knife clattered across the pavement, and Sherlock snatched it up.

 

“No,” he muttered to himself in irritation. “All wrong. Not even close to the right knife. Bugger.”

 

He tossed the knife aside. By that time, Nero had caught up to him and a small crowd was forming.

 

“What happened?” Nero asked breathlessly.

 

“Attempted mugging. Saw the knife, thought it might be worth looking into. Not my serial killer, though.” Sherlock shook his head. It wasn’t even close to the knife that was used to carve numbers into the victims’ hands. “Not that there was much hope of that, given his incompetence, but it was worth a try.”

 

Several bystanders already had their mobiles out and were phoning the police. The man was still gaping up at them, and finally he pointed at Sherlock and sputtered, “You’re him! You’re Sherlock Holmes!”

 

“And that’s our cue,” Sherlock said, nudging Nero. “Ready?”

 

They sprinted the whole way back to Baker Street.

 

Once inside, Nero stripped off his jacket and stepped out of his shoes and socks, leaving them all in a wet pile by the door. He ran his fingers through his hair and then shook his head, sending water droplets sailing through the air.

 

“That was mad,” he panted. “Absolutely mad. Is it always like that with you?”

 

“More often than not.” Sherlock grabbed a towel from the kitchen and dried his face and hair. “Are you feeling alright?”

 

“Yeah, fine,” Nero said. He wasn’t wheezing this time. He was just slightly out of breath. He pushed his wet hair off his forehead and went over to the fireplace, where weeks ago Sherlock had started hanging all the information pertaining to the case. “This is so weird.”

 

“It helps me to visualize all the important aspects of a case,” Sherlock explained. Nero shook his head.

 

“No, that’s not what I mean. It’s just - being here. Seeing all this. It’s strange.” Nero traced the edge of one of the newspaper clippings. “We read about you in school. You and Dr Watson and your cases.”

 

Sherlock was taken aback. “What?”

 

Nero turned to look at him. “Yeah. In a communications class I took a few years ago. We were talking about narratives and social media, and we read Dr Watson’s blog. And it talked about the cases that you did, but it also talked about here. Baker Street. Your evidence wall, Mrs Hudson, your homeless network.”

 

He trailed off, and his face fell. “I didn’t really put it together until then that you were my dad. That - Sherlock Holmes and my dad were the same person. I mean, I _knew_ it, but it didn’t really sink in until then that this was your life. I don’t know why, it’s just… Dad never really talked about you at home, and when he did he called you William. And I was eight the last time I saw you, and all I remember is that you were so tall.”

 

Sherlock sat on the arm of his chair, watching Nero. “My first name is William. I didn’t start going by Sherlock until many years after your dad and I met.”

 

“You go by your middle name,” Nero realised. He swallowed. “Just like me.”

 

“Yes, why _did_ you start going by Nero?”

 

Nero dropped his gaze to the cold fireplace. The silence stretched on for a minute, then two, and Sherlock knew he wasn’t going to answer. So he tried a different tactic.

 

“You aren’t all that interested in seeing Cambridge, are you?”

 

“No,” Nero said. He answered that one readily enough, and raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

 

“Then why did you say you were?”

 

“Because I wanted to see you,” Nero said simply. “And it seemed more likely to happen if I had a reason to do so.”

 

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to him. He started to reach for Nero, to put a hand on his shoulder, but aborted the gesture halfway through. He let his hand fall at his side instead.

 

“What is it you want from me?” he asked quietly. “What are you looking for, James?”

 

Nero squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then opened them. He looked pained.

 

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

 

“Why did you come here?” Sherlock pressed.

 

“I just thought - I thought that things might make sense,” Nero said. His words came out in a rush. “That - that maybe just being here would let me understand.”

 

“Understand what?”

 

“Why you weren’t there,” Nero snapped suddenly. “Why one day we were at the zoo, all three of us, and the next thing I knew Dad was packing us off to America. Why you didn’t even - you didn’t even _try_ to talk to me, not even when you came back from the dead. I just don’t _understand_.”

 

“Nero,” Sherlock started, and then faltered. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

 

Nero looked as though he’d been slapped. He gave a humourless laugh. “I don’t know. That it was a mistake? That you regret not being there?”

 

“You were raised by the best man I know,” Sherlock said quietly. “I don’t regret that.”

 

Nero stared at him for a long moment, his face unreadable.

 

“Yeah, okay,” he managed finally, his voice flat. “I’m going to bed.”

 

“Nero -”

 

But Nero brushed past him and disappeared into the landing, taking the steps two at a time up to his room.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Sherlock was up before Nero. At first, he thought Nero might have been having a well-deserved lie-in, but as the clock inched toward ten, he started to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that Nero was avoiding him.

 

As ever when he was in a situation where he felt completely out of his depth, he thought about how John or Mary might handle it. John was especially clumsy with trying to offer comfort - except when it came to Madeleine - but Mary had the ability to be sympathetic even to those she didn’t know very well. Food and tea were the forms of physical comfort that she tended to offer, so Sherlock made some breakfast for Nero and took a plate of it upstairs.

 

Talk to him, Mary would also instruct, but Sherlock didn’t know what to say.

 

Nero’s bedroom door was still closed, so Sherlock rapped lightly on it.

 

“Nero?” he said. There was no answer, but the chair inside creaked, so Nero must have been awake and sitting at the desk. “I brought you some breakfast.”

 

“Thanks,” Nero said finally. “Just leave it there. I’ll get it in a minute.”

 

Sherlock hesitated. Now what?

 

“Nero, I think we should talk,” he said. There was another beat of silence. “Please.”

 

“What about?” Nero asked, a note of irritation in his voice.

 

“You know what about,” Sherlock said. There was a long silence. Finally, he heard Nero get up and cross the room, and he opened the door.

 

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he said quietly. He looked as though he hadn’t slept at all the night before. The skin under his eyes was bruised and his hair was unkempt.

 

“And yet you came to the door.” Sherlock held out the plate of food, which Nero considered for a moment before taking. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

 

Nero sat cross-legged on the bed while Sherlock perched on his recently-abandoned chair.

 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Sherlock said, the Mary-voice in his head indicating that he should begin with an apology. “I realise that it sounded harsh.”

 

Nero shook his head. He set his plate of food aside.

 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said after a moment. “You don’t need to explain.”

 

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said. “I need you to understand why things are the way that they are, and that it has nothing to do with you.”

 

“It has everything to do with me,” Nero said, his voice flat. “Every decision you and Dad have made over the past seventeen years… it’s all to do with me.”

 

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “How much do you know about why Victor moved the two of you?”

 

“Not much,” Nero admitted.

 

“What did he say when you moved?”

 

“Just that he’d found a new job in America. A better one.” Nero worried a thread on his sleeve. “Knew he was lying, though. I can always tell. A few years later, he admitted it was ‘cause you two had a fight, but wouldn’t say what about. I know it was me. He took me away from you. And you didn’t try to stop him.”

 

“He was protecting you,” Sherlock said. “By moving you away, and by not telling you the truth. He’s only ever wanted what was best for you.”

 

“He has a damn funny way of showing it,” Nero said bitterly.

 

Sherlock leaned forward. He rested his forearms on his thighs and met Nero’s gaze steadily.

 

“Nero, your father and I were best friends at university. Closer than brothers. But my mind works differently from everyone else’s, and it’s literal agony sometimes. So I started doing drugs and looking for distractions - anything that would keep it quiet for a while. I didn’t love your mother, but she was quick and clever and I’ve always admired that. When she found out she was pregnant with you, she decided that she alone would raise you. She didn’t want someone like me taking care of a child, not in my state. But things don’t always work out the way that we want them to. She didn’t even get a chance to hold you before she died.”

 

Nero swallowed hard and looked away. Sherlock went on.

 

“I honestly couldn’t tell you where I was when you were born. I woke up in my flat two days later, hung over and coming off a high, my memory of the past two days complete and utter crap. But you know where Victor was?”

 

Nero’s jaw tensed, and he said nothing.

 

“He was at the hospital. He’d been there for two days. He drove Amanda there, sat with her while she was in labor, and was holding her hand when she passed. You were born sickly, and went right into intensive care. He stayed there until you were well enough to be released, and he brought you to his home. He had nothing, Nero. He was a recent university graduate who worked a tiresome job and made crap pay. He was an orphan who had no family to lean on, he had no idea where I was - no idea if I was still alive, even - and yet the one thing he was sure of more than _anything_ was that he was going to look after you. I think he loved you even before you were born.

 

“My brother finally intervened at that point,” Sherlock continued. “He drew up the paperwork for me to sign over my parental rights to Victor, and then he packed me off to rehab.”

 

“And we all lived happily ever after,” Nero muttered bitterly under his breath.

 

“I’m not finished,” Sherlock said gently. “Because of my stint in rehab, I didn’t meet you until you were almost two years old. Victor was considerably wary of me at that point, and our friendship was nearly over, but he saw that I was clean and that was good enough for him. He started to let me come around to visit. We’d sometimes even go on occasional outings together. The zoo was your favourite.”

 

“And then you left,” Nero snapped.

 

“And then I relapsed,” Sherlock corrected, and Nero looked startled. He got up from his chair and went over to the bed, and Nero didn’t protest as he sat down next to him. “I was clean and part of your life for almost six years. And then I showed up at your flat one weekend for a visit, just like usual, except I was completely strung out. Victor kicked me out and called Mycroft, and I was sent back to rehab. And - and by the time I got out, the two of you were gone. Victor took you and fled, banned me from visiting you and screened my messages, and I can’t say that I blame him. I didn’t mean to drive you two away, but it’s what happened, and I convinced myself that it was for the best.”

 

“I don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” Nero said after a moment. Sherlock placed a knuckle under his chin and tilted his head up until their gazes met.

 

“Because you came here looking for answers,” he said. “For the past seventeen years, every decision Victor’s made has been because of me, not because of something you did. None of this was your fault. And the truth is, I don’t know where I’d be right now if you hadn’t happened. I don’t want to know. And I don’t know if I love you, but I _do_ know that I’m fond of you. And I also know there’s no one in the world who loves you more than Victor does.”

 

He didn’t know if those were the answers Nero was looking for, or if they were the ones he wanted to hear, but they _were_ answers. It was the truth as far as Sherlock knew it.

 

Nero nodded slightly, and Sherlock dropped his hand.

 

“Nero, have you thought at all about – after? About what happens once you go home?” he asked. “About what role you want me to have in your life?” He licked dry lips and added, “If any, that is.”

 

Nero sniffed and pressed the back of his hand to his nose. He swallowed hard and, regaining some of his composure, said, “I don’t want you to disappear again.”

 

Sherlock slipped an arm around Nero’s shoulders, pulling him into a one-armed hug. He rested his chin on top of Nero’s head and said, “I won’t. I want to keep getting to know you, if you’ll let me.”

 

Nero nodded, and Sherlock’s heart lightened.

 

\----

 

The final three days of Nero’s visit passed in a blur.

 

John and Mary were called in to the clinic on Sunday at the last moment, and Sherlock was tasked with looking after Madeleine for them. There was still some slight tension between him and Nero, and Madeleine’s cheerful presence helped to dispel some of that. Nero was good with her, and she seemed to like him, and the three of them somehow spent the majority of the day playing “crime scene.” It was more enjoyable than Sherlock cared to admit.

 

Lestrade and John took Nero out to play rugby the next day, and that evening they all got together at Baker Street for a final meal. Then it was Tuesday, and Victor was boarding a plane from Berlin to London, and Nero was half-heartedly packing up all of his things.

 

It was amazing, Sherlock thought, how quickly Nero had made himself at home in the flat. His things were everywhere - toiletries in the bathroom, books on the table, socks in the living room. The flat started to feel empty as Nero’s things disappeared and migrated upstairs, which was absurd. The flat had never felt Nero’s presence before. But now it wasn’t going to be the same without him.

 

Sherlock was going to miss this.

 

He was tracking Victor’s flight today much the same way he had Nero’s last week. It landed half an hour late, but still with plenty of time for Victor to come out to the flat for a few hours before he and Nero had to turn around and head back to Heathrow. In truth, Sherlock wondered if it would be easier if Victor was pressed for time and couldn’t stay to visit. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this reunion.

 

But it was coming, whether he was ready for it or not.

 

“Nero, ask your father what he wants for dinner,” Sherlock called upstairs. “And if takeaway is all right.”

 

He received a muffled response that he assumed was Nero agreeing to do as he asked.

 

“Dad’s about twenty minutes out,” Nero said ten minutes later as he came into the kitchen, his eyes on his mobile. “And he says that takeaway sounds good. If you’re ordering from where he’s thinking of, then he’ll have his usual.”

 

Nero looked up, frowning. “You guys had a usual place?”

 

Sherlock felt an unexpected pang at the memory and dropped his eyes to his notebook.

 

“Yes,” he said as he wrote down his results. “It’s that Chinese place just around the corner. Take a look at their menu and tell me what you want.”

 

He gestured to the fridge, where he had a menu pinned. Nero consulted it, gave Sherlock his order, and then went back upstairs to finish packing. Sherlock called in the takeaway order and was told it would be delivered in about half an hour.

 

When that was finished, he tucked his mobile away and then brushed his palms against his trousers, trying to get rid of the clammy feeling. Victor would be here at any moment now. Nero was eight the last time they had seen one another. That was almost ten years ago now.

 

He tried to concentrate on his work, but he couldn’t stay focused. There were too many other thoughts crowding his brain, like what Victor looked like now and how tense their first meal together in years would be. He wondered if Nero had said anything yet to Victor about the falling out they’d had a few days ago, and what Victor would say about that. He hoped Victor wouldn’t forbid him from speaking to or seeing Nero again.

 

He was in the midst of these troubled thoughts when the doorbell downstairs rang, startling him. Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister today, so Sherlock made his way downstairs to answer it, trepidation sitting heavy in his stomach.

 

It would have been incorrect to say that Victor hadn’t aged at all in nine years. He _was_ visibly older, the softness of youth having faded from his face, but the years had been good to him. He was as attractive as ever, perhaps even more so now than he had been when they were in university.

 

They stared at each other for a beat, until Victor finally cleared his throat and said, “Er - can I come in?”

 

“Yes, right,” Sherlock said, mentally shaking himself, and he stepped back to allow Victor into the building. He had his luggage with him, a rolling suitcase and a bag that he had slung over his shoulder. Sherlock held out his hand to take one of the bags, but Victor shook his head.

 

“Thanks, I’ve got it.”

 

“How was the conference?” Sherlock asked when he could think of nothing else to fill the silence. He started up the stairs, Victor on his heels.

 

“It was good. I haven't had so much to drink in so short a time since uni, though.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “You academic types are all the same.”

 

“Yeah, we’ll drink you out of house and home if given the chance. How’s Nero?”

 

“Fine. Packing now.” Sherlock let them into the flat. Victor set down his bags gratefully.

 

“Of course he is,” Victor said with a sigh. “God forbid he should ever do anything on time.”

 

“Tea?” Sherlock asked as he went back into the kitchen. Victor followed him.

 

“Coffee if you have it,” Victor said. His gaze traveled around the room, taking it all in. “Otherwise, just water is fine. Nice place. I see you’ve kept Billy.”

 

Sherlock followed his gaze to the mantel over the fireplace, where he had placed the skull he’d had since university.

 

“Yes, well, it wouldn’t feel like home without him.”

 

He gave a tentative smile, which Victor returned, and some of the tension eased. There was a pounding down the stairs just then, and Nero burst into the room.

 

“Hi, Dad,” he said brightly. They embraced, and Victor ruffled Nero’s hair as he pulled back.

 

“Hey, buddy,” he said, a wide smile on his face. “Are you all packed?”

 

“Yeah,” Nero said. Victor gave him a look.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Nero pulled a face. “Sort of. I’m just grabbing some last-minute things. I’ll be done in like five minutes, I promise!”

 

He rushed out again into the living room, where he gathered up some books and a pair of socks he’d left behind. Victor chuckled.

 

“Doesn’t take him long to make himself at home, does it?” he said. Sherlock handed him a steaming mug of coffee, which he accepted gratefully. “Oh, thanks, Sherlock. Much appreciated.”

 

The doorbell rang again, and Sherlock went downstairs to retrieve the food. When he came back upstairs, Victor was rooting around the kitchen, presumably looking for plates.

 

“Are those desiccated mice up here?” he asked, closing one cabinet and moving on to the next.

 

“I didn’t know where else to put them. One more over.”

 

Victor moved over to the left once more and finally found the plates. He pulled out three while Sherlock started clearing some of his experiments off the table to make room for the food. It all felt very normal, very natural, and Sherlock tried not to think about the fact that this was probably the only time the three of them would be together like this.

 

“So, tell me about your week,” Victor said as Nero joined them at the table and they all settled in to eat. “What did you think of Cambridge?”

 

“It was nice,” Nero lied smoothly before Sherlock could think of something to say. Victor lifted an eyebrow.

 

“That’s it? Just nice?”

 

Nero shrugged. “A university is a university, Dad.”

 

“Unbelievable,” Victor said, shaking his head. A smile tugged at his mouth. “Did Sherlock show you all our old stomping grounds?”

 

“He spent a lot of the time deducing people,” Nero said, smiling to himself as though recalling an actual memory. “It was _awesome_.”

 

Victor rolled his eyes and Sherlock snorted, wondering if he should be concerned that fibbing came so easily – and so naturally – to Nero.

 

“What else did you do?”

 

“Well, on Tuesday, Sherlock got this call from Scotland Yard and he went out to investigate a body they found by the Thames,” Nero said enthusiastically. “And get this - it had _no head_.”

 

Victor wrinkled his nose. “That’s gross, Nero.”

 

“Nah, it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t really bloody or anything. That means that he was decapitated elsewhere, right?” Nero said to Sherlock. Victor rubbed his forehead.

 

“Sherlock, did you take my kid to a crime scene?”

 

“He asked,” Sherlock said defensively.

 

“And you thought it was a good idea?” Victor’s good mood was starting to evaporate, and Sherlock had no idea how to get it back. Things had been unexpectedly pleasant up to this moment, and it had been a welcome change.

 

“Dad, it’s fine,” Nero said quietly, also sensing the change. “He didn’t want to let me come, but I wanted to. It was my idea.”

 

“The thing is, the adults in your life need look after you, and sometimes that means not letting you do something even when you want to do it,” Victor said softly.

 

“Can we not do this?” Nero pleaded. “Just this once, Dad. Come on. Sherlock’s not out to get me, and he’s not out to make you mad. Okay?”

 

Victor’s eyes flicked to Sherlock, and then slid back to Nero’s.

 

“Alright,” he said finally. He dug into his food again. “So, tell me what else you did.”

 

Nero gave him a run-down of the entire week, from his visit to the Yard and St. Bart’s to the trips they had taken around the city. Victor seemed suitably impressed that they had managed to pack so much in.

 

“See, if you go to Cambridge, you’ll be able to do this all the time,” Victor said. His phone beeped, and he dug it out of his pocket. “I think you’d really like it here, buddy. Especially -”

 

Victor broke off as he checked the message on his phone. Sherlock frowned, recognising the look on Victor’s face.

  
“What’s wrong?”

 

“Flight’s been canceled,” Victor said. “Oh, bloody hell. Excuse me.”

 

He got up from his seat and went out onto the landing to put in a call to the airline. Nero returned to his food, looking subdued.

 

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Yeah,” Nero said unconvincingly. “I just thought he’d be okay, you know? After he saw that I had a good time and you took care of me. But he can be a right arse sometimes.”

 

“He’s very protective of you,” Sherlock said. “And rightly so.”

 

“I guess.”

 

Nero returned to his food. Sherlock’s mobile buzzed in his pocket, and he dug it out to see a text from his brother.

 

_You have one night. Don’t waste it._

 

Sherlock stared uncomprehendingly at the screen for a moment, and then typed back, _You canceled a flight to force Victor to talk to me?_

 

 _You’re welcome,_ was all Mycroft said in response.

 

Victor came back into the kitchen just then, visibly irritated.

 

“It’s not just our flight. All flights out of Heathrow have been grounded due to a massive computer glitch,” he said in frustration. “The earliest we can maybe fly out is tomorrow afternoon.”

 

 _Overkill much, Mycroft?_ Sherlock thought.

 

“Oh.” Nero was attempting to look disappointed and failing miserably. “Er - sorry, Dad. That really sucks.”

 

Victor gave him a look, trying to fight off a threatening smile. “Oh, go on. I know you’re excited about spending another night here.”

 

Nero broke into a bright grin and pushed his chair back from the table. “I’m gonna go text Nate and Owen, see if they wanna go out.”

 

He dashed off to his room to retrieve his mobile. Victor turned questioning eyes on Sherlock.

 

“Two of his friends from primary school,” Sherlock clarified. “They reconnected this past week. He’s gone out with them a couple of times already.”

 

Victor shook his head. “He really has made himself right at home, hasn’t he?”

 

He pulled out his phone again and started typing. “I’ll go ahead and find a hotel close by. I’ll get out of your hair tonight either way, even if we’re stuck here for another day or two.”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Sherlock said abruptly. Victor looked up at him, his brows lifted in surprise. “Stay here.”

 

Victor shook his head. “Really, Sherlock, I couldn’t ask you to put me up for the night -”

 

“I want to,” Sherlock said firmly. “It won’t be a bother. You could even take my bed, if you like. I don’t sleep when I’m working on a case, and when I do, it’s just on the sofa.”

 

Victor hesitated.

 

“Sherlock,” he said finally, dropping his voice. “Look, I really appreciate what you’ve done for Nero this past week. I do. You’ve - surprised me, to be honest. But that doesn’t automatically make it as though the past seventeen years never happened. We’ve got too much history between us. Too much pain we’ve put each other through. I don’t think staying here is a good idea.”

 

“I know I can’t fix everything that happened between us,” Sherlock said, lowering his voice as well. “But what if I wanted to try?”

 

Victor looked weary. He rubbed a hand over his face, thinking.

 

“I’ll stay for a drink,” he said at last with a quiet sigh. “After Nero leaves. How about that?”

 

It was better than Sherlock had been expecting, and he nodded.

 

Nero left to meet his friends at half-past seven, after assuring Victor that he would be back to the flat by one.

 

“And I get to stay here overnight, right?” he’d asked before leaving. Sherlock didn’t miss the look of hope in his eyes, but he also noticed the pain in Victor’s.

 

“Of course,” Victor had said regardless, and he’d been rewarded with a brilliant grin from Nero before the boy had rushed off to meet his friends.

 

“What would you like?” Sherlock asked. Victor stared at him for a moment blankly, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

 

“Oh,” he said. “Right. Um - scotch, if you have it.”

 

Sherlock did, as a matter of fact. It had been a gift from Lestrade last year for Christmas, and he’d not touched it since. He pulled it out of the cabinet and had to pluck the red bow off of it before opening it. Victor’s lips quirked in amusement.

 

“I can’t believe you’ve had that in your possession for half a year and haven’t touched it,” he said. “What happened to the William I knew and what have you done with him?”

 

Sherlock snorted as he poured two glasses for them.

 

“I don’t drink much anymore,” he said, passing Victor his glass.

 

“Any reason why not?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Will you roll your eyes if I said it wasn’t the same without you?”

 

“Probably,” Victor said. He lifted his glass and touched it to Sherlock’s, and then they both took a measured swallow of their drinks. “So tell me. What’s with the sudden interest in Nero?”

 

“You sure know how to make light conversation,” Sherlock said dryly. Victor shrugged.

 

“I was going to get around to that question eventually. Might as well do it sooner rather than later.” Victor took another sip of his drink. “Let’s be honest. If he hadn't asked in the first place, then none of this would have happened. Do you ever even think of him?”

 

“All the time,” Sherlock admitted. A part of him was always aware that there was an extension of himself out there, a child that was of his flesh and blood, and that he was existing somewhere else in the world. Even when he wasn’t consciously thinking about it, he was aware of Nero. He sighed. “No, you’re correct. If Nero hadn’t made the initial move, I don't know if I ever would have reached out to him. But he did, and this happened, so what does it matter?”

 

“Okay,” Victor said. “Then what is it you want from him? From me?”

 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “I want - I want to know him.”

 

“But think about it practically for a moment. What do you _want_? Do you want him to call you? Text you? Email you? Will you do the same for him? What happens when you get bored and move on to the next fascinating thing?”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “I won’t get bored of him.”

 

“How do you know, Sherlock?” Victor asked sadly. “He wasn’t enough for you the first time around. What’s changed?”

 

Victor finished off his scotch and went to pour himself another glass. Sherlock rubbed his forehead. This conversation had derailed already and he had no idea how to get it back under control.

 

“I can’t even begin to explain to you how confusing this all is,” he said finally in frustration. “Yes, Nero’s conception was a mistake, but at the same time, I don’t regret him. I regret not speaking to him for years, for relapsing when he was eight, but if that hadn’t happened - he wouldn’t be the person he is now. He grew up under your influence, under only _your_ influence, and it’s made him wonderful. I never would have wanted to inflict myself on him while he was growing up.”

 

“You wouldn’t have been inflicting yourself on him,” Victor said bitterly. “He was a very confused kid who didn’t understand why his mother was dead and his father didn’t want anything to do with him. It’s taken him a very long time to come to terms with all of that. I think he’s still struggling with it, to be honest. Hence this trip.”

 

Victor took another long swallow of his drink and added, “Typical, you know. Making this all about you.”

 

“Victor, I don’t know what you want from me,” Sherlock snapped. “I can’t go back and redo the past seventeen years, but I _am_ trying to make things better. Right here, right now, I am trying. Why aren’t you?”

 

“Because when you’re tired of being a parent and swan off into the sunset again, I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces,” Victor said darkly. “Just like the last time.”

 

“ _You_ were the one who took him away the last time.”

 

“And what would you have had me do?” Victor snapped. “You were on drugs, Sherlock! So yes, I took him away from you, and I don’t regret that. I wish things had worked out differently, of course I do, but given the circumstances… I didn’t know what else to do, alright? He’s my first priority. He’s always my first priority.”

 

Victor drained his glass for a second time. Sherlock filled it for him and then topped off his own.

 

“Come on,” he said, nodding towards the living room, and Victor followed him. They both took a seat on the sofa. Victor propped his feet on the low table in front of them and tipped his head back. His exhaustion looked to be bone-deep. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Of course you had to take him away the last time. You did the right thing.”

 

Victor’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and he stared at Sherlock for a moment in surprise. Sherlock looked away first, unable to meet his gaze for too long.

 

“Like I said, it’s all very confusing,” he said quietly to his glass. “One moment I’m angry at you for leaving, for giving up on me… the next, I understand that I left you no choice.”

 

“Sometimes it’s just easier to put the blame elsewhere, especially when you felt as though you’ve lost _years_ with someone,” Victor said, his tone defeated. 

 

“You get it enough from Nero,” Sherlock said. “Sometimes he’s angry at you for taking him away, sometimes he’s angry with me for letting you go without a fight. You don’t need it from me, too.”

 

“He’s a good kid,” Victor said. “I can handle it.”

 

“The thing is, you don’t have to. Not alone, at least. Not anymore.” Sherlock finally dared to meet Victor’s eyes again. He saw a brief flicker of hope, which buoyed him to pursue the rest of his curiosity. “Tell me something. Why did he start going by his middle name?”

 

Victor lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I dunno, Sherlock. The whim of a teenager, I guess.”

 

Sherlock could tell that he was lying, and so he kept his silence. After a moment, Victor dropped his gaze to his glass, his lips thinning as memory took over.

 

“Because you gave it to him,” Victor said finally, quietly. “You chose his middle name, back when you and Amanda were on speaking terms. She wanted James for his first name and you liked Nero for his middle one, and I told him that story when he was a little boy. He went by James up until three years ago. Doesn’t that seem like suspicious timing to you, Great Detective?”

 

“My return,” Sherlock said, and Victor nodded.

 

“You returned, and you never even tried to call him. He was devastated, only this time he couldn’t blame me for you not being there. I took him away the first time, but three years ago - that was when he realised that you didn’t _want_ to be in his life. He felt like he had lost you, so he started going by the name you gave him. It was the only part of you he was ever going to have in his life.” Victor recited it all in a dull, flat voice. And then he added, “I only assume, of course. He never said as much out loud.”

 

Sherlock felt as though someone had stuck a knife in his gut and twisted it. “I didn’t know.”

 

Victor turned pained eyes on him. “Would it have made a difference if you did?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Victor looked away.

 

“I want to stay in contact with him,” Sherlock said.

 

“It’s not like I actually have the power to keep you from doing that,” Victor said tiredly. “Or him, for that matter.”

 

“If you were truly against it, I wouldn’t do it.”

 

Victor looked at him in some surprise. “I’ve never known you to heed another’s wishes against your own.”

 

Sherlock took a measured swallow of scotch.

 

“A lot can happen in nine years,” he said finally.

 

“I suppose that’s true enough.” Victor closed his eyes briefly, and then opened them again. “I need some water.”

 

Sherlock got him a glass. He drained half of it and then set both it and the scotch aside.

 

“Okay,” he said after a beat. “Yes, you can stay in contact with Nero.”

 

Sherlock let out a slow breath. “Thank you.”

 

Victor nodded absently. He looked troubled. He pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to the window, where he stood gazing out at the London skyline. Sherlock got up and went over to him.

 

“Victor,” he tried softly. He laid a hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Vic.”

 

When Victor spoke, his voice cracked. “Just - please don’t take him from me.”

 

Sherlock dropped his hand from Victor’s shoulder in surprise. “What?”

 

Victor squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

 

“Please don’t take him from me,” he repeated softly. He opened his eyes but didn’t look at Sherlock. “He’s all I have. In another year he’ll be off to university anyway. Please just let me have this one last year with him.”

 

“Why would I take him from you?” Sherlock asked. “How could I? He loves you.”

 

“You’re his biological father,” Victor said, his voice tightly controlled. “If you wanted custody of him… all you’d have to do is say the word. And he quite clearly adores you.”

 

“I wouldn’t do that. Victor.” Sherlock let the silence build for a moment, until Victor finally turned to look at him. “He is _your_ son. I have no intention of usurping your position, and that’s not what he wants either. He doesn’t even want to go to Cambridge.”

 

Victor blinked at him. “What?”

 

“He came here to see me. He doesn’t want to go to Cambridge. It was all a ruse.” Sherlock squeezed his shoulder. “We never even went and visited it.”

 

Victor passed a shaking hand over his face.

 

“Should’ve known,” he muttered finally. “Cunning kid.”

 

“I’m glad he did it,” Sherlock said. “I’ve missed so much of his life.”

 

He hesitated, and then he added, “I’ve missed _you_.”

 

Victor’s mouth twisted. He dropped his gaze to Sherlock’s chest.

 

“You were my best friend,” he said softly. “Cutting off all contact with you was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It - it killed me, not being able to email you or text you or call you in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. I missed everything about you. I missed -”

 

He broke off abruptly. Sherlock finally released his shoulder, but Victor didn’t step away. They were mere centimeters apart.

 

“I don’t want to miss anything else,” Sherlock said quietly. “In his life or in yours.”

 

Victor finally met his gaze again. His hazel eyes were overbright, brimming with an emotion Sherlock was frightened to hope for, let alone name. He couldn’t say the words - the words he had always known, the ones that Mary had guessed. It wouldn’t change a thing between them anyway. It couldn’t. But he thought them, privately, admitting it to himself for the first time without a qualifier or an asterisk. He loved this man, wholly and completely. He would _always_ love this man.

 

“I don’t want you to, either,” Victor said finally, the words so soft that Sherlock almost missed them. “Christ, Sherlock -”

 

He reached for Sherlock then, pulling him into a fierce embrace. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and dug his fingers into his back, clutching at him like a lifeline. Sherlock hugged him back, and Victor pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder, letting out a choked sound.

 

“And he’s not all that you have,” Sherlock said softly. “You have me. You’ll always have me. I swear it.”

 

With that, the last of Victor’s resistance crumbled. He agreed to stay the night, and Sherlock changed the sheets on his bed before making up the sofa for himself. Victor was asleep by the time Nero came home, but Sherlock was awake and heard him mount the steps quietly up to 221b.

 

"Hey, Sherlock," Nero whispered when he stuck his head in the door. "I'm back. Dad go to bed?"

 

Sherlock marked his page and set his book down. He motioned for Nero to join him on the sofa.

 

"He did. But we had a decent talk before then. It's all right with him if you want to keep in contact with me."

 

Nero gave him a relieved smile. "That's really great, Sherlock. So you'll call?"

 

"Or email, or text. Whatever it is you want me to do," Sherlock said. "Did you have fun?"

 

Nero nodded. "Yeah. This whole trip was great. I'm really glad I came."

 

It wasn't exactly what Sherlock had been asking, but he didn't realise until now that it was what he needed to hear. He ruffled Nero's hair.

 

"So am I. I'm sorry you had to be the one to finally reach out, but I'm glad you did. It's been -" Sherlock broke off and shook his head. He had no proper words for it, truly. Astounding, exhilarating, terrifying. All of that and more. He squeezed Nero's shoulder and said, "I'm proud of you. Just - know that. I'm _proud_ of you."

 

Sherlock lay awake for at least an hour after Nero went to bed, staring into the cold fireplace, his chest hollow and aching. It didn’t make sense that he should feel this way, when _finally_ after so many years it appeared as though he and Victor and Nero might have a chance to mend things. But a chance wasn’t a guarantee, and either way, by the next evening Victor and Nero would be thousands of miles away once more. It wasn’t an insurmountable distance, but it felt like one. 

 

The atmosphere the next morning was subdued. Victor and Nero needed to be at the airport early. Nero, still groggy with sleep, hugged Sherlock for a long while. Sherlock finally pulled back, and forced Nero to meet his eye.

 

“That room upstairs is yours,” he said quietly. “Any time you want to come out, I’ll pay for the ticket.”

 

Nero’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Victor, who gave a small nod.

 

“Thanks, Sherlock,” Nero said, giving him a tight hug once more. Then he grabbed his suitcase and went out to the waiting cab without looking back.

 

“Buck up, mate,” Victor said bracingly, though he was one to talk - his eyes were red-rimmed. He went up on the balls of his feet so he could give Sherlock a proper hug without pulling him down. “You’ll see him soon enough. Come our way next time.”

 

“Next time?” Sherlock echoed dumbly. He tightened his grip on Victor.

 

“Yeah,” Victor said quietly. “We can give it a go, can’t we? Like you said - nine years is a long time. A lot can happen. So come out and visit us sometime. There's an extra bedroom - we can put you up easily.”

 

He pulled out of the hug, but didn’t step back. His hands found Sherlock’s, and their fingers entwined. It was a natural gesture, absent-minded, as if it was something they always did.

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “For taking him in. Raising him. You did the one thing I never could, and I’m grateful. Thank you for _everything._ ”

 

Victor’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He blinked in surprise, and Sherlock drank him in.  In another moment, Victor would compose himself and draw back; say his final goodbyes. In the moment after that, he would be in the car with Nero, driving away.

 

Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips against Victor’s, a tentative but unmistakable kiss. Victor responded reflexively, his mouth moving mechanically against Sherlock’s. Then he gave a whimper that got caught in the back of his throat and tugged his hands from Sherlock’s, but instead of pushing him away, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck. Dragged him in closer, slanting their mouths together. Sherlock’s arms went around Victor’s waist. He pulled Victor up, almost completely off his feet, and parted his lips under Victor’s insistent tongue.

 

Victor kissed with an intensity Sherlock had never before experienced, at once searing and tender. Blood pounded in Sherlock’s ears, drowning out all other noise, and his awareness narrowed to Victor’s scent and taste and warm, solid body. Victor changed the angle of the kiss. Buried a hand in Sherlock’s hair and tugged his curls, eliciting a deep-throated groan.

 

When they broke apart, Sherlock wasn’t aware if seconds or minutes had passed. He couldn’t think; couldn’t process. Victor, who appeared slightly more with it than Sherlock was, swiped a thumb across his lower lip, wiping some of the excess saliva away.

 

“You always did have shit timing,” he said finally, giving a lopsided smile. His words were gentle.

 

“I know,” Sherlock croaked. He didn’t know how he’d managed twenty years without that kiss.  

 

A car horn blared, and they both jumped.

 

“He’s going to be back up here in a minute, wondering if we’re fighting,” Victor said with half a laugh. He shouldered his bag. “I’ll call when we get home. And - I mean it, you know. Come visit. Sooner rather than later. I've _missed_ you.”

 

Victor gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him down, kissing him one last time, and when they broke apart Sherlock very nearly said something foolish, like _Don’t go._ Or, even worse: _I love you._

“Travel safe,” was what he managed instead, his voice little more than a croak.

 

And then Victor was gone, down the steps and out the door. Sherlock watched from the window as the cab pulled away from the kerb, and continued to stand there long after he had lost track of it in the early morning London traffic.

 

 


End file.
